


Trapped!

by SlytherinsDragon



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Crack Treated Seriously, Curse Breaking, M/M, Mycroft's Umbrella, No brollies were harmed in the writing of this fic!, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Reconciliation, Soulmates, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28453395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: Sherlock gets cursed into Mycroft's brolly.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 43
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magic1034](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magic1034/gifts), [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts).



> While brainstorming ideas for Holmescestual fics, the prompt: Sherlock turns into Mycroft's brolly caught our fancy and this is the result of that. 
> 
> Happy New Year everyone!
> 
> I will post every couple of days.

“Sherlock, just don’t touch anyth– well… especially that...”

There is a sound that suspiciously sounds like a ‘poof’ and everything goes dark.

* * * 

The next thing Sherlock knows is that he’s moving. Rocking to and fro like a vessel on gentle seas. He sees dimmed hallways with exquisite panelling, gilt edges, static paintings from centuries back and a moment later – the space opens up. It is well-lit by sunlight and Sherlock feels himself descending, catching glimpses of red-carpeted stairs. 

Just wait a moment – where is he? He’s no longer at the disreputable Borgin and Burkes – which still deals with questionable artifacts and antiques long after the war – investigating a series of mysterious disappearances of fellow wizards and witches with Lestrade. And now… he’s in somewhere… Muggle. He has no control over where he’s going, no awareness of limbs, but he has his… senses. He can see, hear – hm…

_ Where am I?! _ He tries to shout, but all he hears is the patter of feet of whomever it is going down the stairs. 

There are glimpses of bespoke trousers, and now that he’s becoming more aware of his surroundings – he has the strange sensation that something is touching his head(?). Oh. Whoever or whatever he is, he’s being held by this person. 

Sherlock almost faints when he hears a familiar voice call out.

“Mycroft! Fancy seeing you here!” 

Wait, what? Sherlock’s surroundings finally stop moving, and he sees the dark dress and the matching flats of one Lady Smallwood. He’s met her once for a blackmailing case. 

“Lady Smallwood, a pleasure.” 

His brother doesn’t sound at all pleased to see her, but she pushes forward nevertheless.

“Oh, Mycroft – I’ve told you time and time again – you must call me Alicia!” 

Sherlock could feel himself being twitched a little and he realizes that it’s Mycroft resisting the urge to smack her with his – oh Merlin! 

Brolly! 

That’s what he is! 

His brother’s umbrella! 

What. The. Fuck. Did. He. Even. Touch? 

Damn, this isn’t the first time his curiosity and impulsivity had burnt him, but never like this! Turning him into the finest of black polyester, steel ribs and malacca wood! He can hear his brother trying to fight off her advances for a quick lunch nearby – 

“I am sorry,  _ Lady Smallwood, _ but I have a very busy schedule today. I do have a meeting with the Prime Minister in approximately ten minutes –”

“But I so did want your input on the situation in Kuwait before the meeting with the Americans tomorrow.” 

Even though Sherlock cannot see her face, he could hear the coy smile in it. 

Fancy that! Big brother getting hit on! 

“Later perhaps. Take it up with Anthea.” 

“You shouldn’t let your assistants run your life, Mycroft – it’s so –”

“I am a busy man, Lady Smallwood. Anthea facilitates my life which is more than I can say for your Parker. Good day, I am running late as it is.”

This can’t be all bad! Sherlock muses as Mycroft scurries away from Lady Smallwood as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. Merlin forbid anyone ran in the hallowed halls of Whitehall! 

Who knows, maybe he could find some new blackmail material or something. 

* * * 

Merlin’s bollocks! 

His brother’s life is boring. 

Meetings after meetings! The scandal of a minor Prince being caught with a well-known prostitute and the avenues they could pursue to make it all hush-hush. Mycroft scolding several people in Cabinet for making silly decisions that could possibly cost them the next election! Economic strategizing for the next international summit! The rising cost of flour and meat of all things! 

Sherlock wants to scream! Well, he can’t even make any noises so he mentally screams instead when Mycroft finally makes his way over to his Whitehall office. 

What is Lestrade and his band of merry men (and women) doing? Lestrade had been right there when Sherlock had touched one of the suspicious artifacts – an exquisitely carved wardrobe in miniature with a rose motif. Surely they would have called in the Curse-Breakers by now? 

But instead of going straight for his desk, his brother ducks into the nearby loo. Mycroft leans his brolly at the corner and proceeds with his business, hell – leaving Sherlock with a prime view of the business end of things! Unfortunately he can’t even look away or close his non-existent eyes when Mycroft unbuckles his belt, hums a little jaunty tune and bares all for Sherlock to see. 

Dear Circe! His brother is… quite well endowed. To be fair, the tighter and tighter tailoring of his trousers over the course of the previous years don’t do much to hide the fact, but it’s quite another thing to see it in person! His brother does his business, giving his cock a shake to get the last drops out before tucking himself back in and zipping himself back up. Then he goes to sink and washes his hands quite thoroughly. 

It must be the end of the day. Sherlock deduces as his brother seems to be shedding the burdens he had been carrying and even does a little jig before he leaves the room – picking up the brolly as he heads back to his office. 

“Sir?” 

It’s Anthea.

“Yes, Anthea?”

“Auror Lestrade just called.”

“Ah, so he’s finally mastered the use of a phone! What is little brother up to now?” 

Oh dear! Sherlock begins to panic then. If Lestrade is calling Mycroft, and if he, Sherlock, is still stuck in this brolly – then it’s a problem. 

A BIG problem. 

But Sherlock doesn’t miss out on the indulgent tone that Mycroft has when he mentions Sherlock. And this is despite the unresolved argument on where Sherlock had decided to live after blowing up his last flatshare with a spectacular Potions accident. 

It's the usual age old argument of Sherlock wanting independence and Mycroft simply wanting them to live together. Sherlock had accused Mycroft of being a control freak and Mycroft had said something about immaturity. Sherlock had seethed and their bickering had derailed into the usual jabs involving Mycroft’s diet. He is almost thirty for Merlin’s sake, and is quite capable with a wand, thank you very much. He certainly didn't need a nanny! 

“Your brother has apparently disappeared, Sir. They were at Borgin and Burkes – you know that shop in Knockturn Alley that deals with –”

“I might be a squib, Anthea – but I do know that that shop deals with unsavoury goods of a Dark nature –”

“Yes, Sir, so your brother touched something and then the next thing Lestrade realized was that he was gone!”

“So, the object was cursed.”

“It seems so. There have been a few disappearances in Knockturn Alley lately, and Lestrade thinks that this object may have been the cause. The artifact is under Auror custody and is now under investigation by the Curse Breakers in the Ministry, Sir.”

Mycroft sighs, just as Sherlock wants to shout  _ ‘Over here! Over here!’. _ But no one hears him. “Has any of the victims reappeared, Anthea?”

“No. I am afraid not, Sir. The first known disappearance happened three months ago.”

“Presumably after the object found its way to Borgin and Burkes?”

“That, Sir, I can find out for you later.” Anthea then says. “You are done for today, Sir. Do you wish to meet with Sir Edwin tomorrow or next week over the Talbot Papers?”

“Next week.” Mycroft's tone is dejected.

“Cheer up, Sir – I am sure your brother will pop up soon. He does have a penchant for getting himself out of scrapes.”

“Thank you, Anthea.” 

Mycroft goes into his office and packs up with dissatisfaction. 

* * *

The trip back to Mycroft’s home is uneventful. Sherlock had spent it lying on Mycroft’s lap while his brother absentmindedly rubs at the handle with his fingers… or rather what feels like Sherlock’s head in his transfigured(?) state. Rather like someone caressing his scalp. It feels unexpectedly… nice. But is he really transfigured? Or has his soul been cast away from his body and he’s now possessing his brother’s constant companion? 

He’s never heard of this curse before, and he wonders how does it work? And why had it targetted Mycroft’s brolly out of all things? 

Sherlock had stolen it once or twice for a lark, and there had been a memorable day where Sherlock had used a bit of magic to levitate the umbrella around, playing a little game of keep-away from his brother. Mycroft had been brilliantly furious and Anthea had later charmed his brolly so that it was impervious to Sherlock’s magical shenanigans. Well, except for this particular episode. Other than that, he isn’t the one with the brolly obsession. 

It starts to rain when the Jag draws closer to Mycroft’s house. His brother reaches over to press the intercom and he says.

“No need to open the door for me, Charles – it’s pouring out.”

“Are you sure, Sir?” The concerned voice of his chauffeur comes through.

“Yes, Charles. We can start later tomorrow. Let’s say… nine?”

“Sounds good, Sir. I will see you then.”

The door opens and Sherlock finds himself being swung out of the door. There’s a queer sensation of having his limbs being spread wide when he realizes that Mycroft had opened the canopy of of his brolly. 

Ah! Fuck! It’s wet! And cold! The downpour comes down hard during the minute it takes his brother to scurry from the car to the door. When Mycroft finally slams the door shut behind him, Sherlock finds himself being both shaken and spun as the excess rainwater falls off. 

Bloody fuck. This is miserable. Sherlock can’t help but shiver when Mycroft props him next to the front door. What sadistic bastard invented such a curse? Then he hears the footsteps of Mycroft walking away, and he realizes that he is going to be in for a very long night. 

_What did he do to deserve this? Mycroft, Mycroft – please don’t go!_ _I will be good. For a day. For two days! For a week! I will move in with you!_

_ Do brollies even sleep? _

His brother turns around and looks at him again. There’s an odd look on his face.

_ Mycroft. Please.  _ Sherlock tries desperately to communicate.

Mycroft takes a step toward him before shaking his head and turning back around. Sherlock could only watch with abject misery as his brother disappears up the stairs. 

* * *

Unexpectedly after an interminable amount of time had passed, the doorbell rings, shocking him out of his bored stupor. It’s still pouring cats and dogs outside, so Sherlock wonders who could possibly be calling at this hour. A secret lover? Is this the blackmail that Sherlock had been looking for?

His brother strides up to the door in a rumpled shirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms. He had had dinner, had shaved and showered and judging by the sounds coming from the interior of the house, Mycroft had been watching one of those muggle films. It’s safe to deduce that he had not anticipated the arrival of whoever had just arrived. Okay. So, not a paramour. Disappointment fills Sherlock as he had been curious in regard to the types of men that Mycroft would consider dating at this established point of his life. His brother opens the door. 

“Head Auror! What brings you here at this hour? And Auror Lestrade!”

Considering all the shit that Sherlock had been involved in over the last decade, his brother is familiar with a few members of the Auror squad. Oh, fucking bollocks! If the Boy-Who-Bloody-Won’t-Die is here, then things must be grave indeed. 

Potter steps into view, his dark hair as unruly as ever. His windbreaker is new, but ill-fitting. The wedding band is gone from Potter’s finger, indicating that he had finally joined the ranks of the divorced, such as Auror Lestrade. The institution of holy matrimony seems to be not so sacred these days. There is cat fur clinging on to Potter’s clothes, indicating that he must have been staying with his godson. 

“Mycroft.” It’s Lestrade that speaks. “I am afraid we are bearers of bad news.”

“I… I deduced as much.” Mycroft walks over toward Sherlock.

To a casual onlooker, Mycroft would seem aloof to the news that something terrible has happened to his little brother, but Sherlock knows better. There is worry in the lines of his face and the slightest of tremors in his voice. Sherlock then feels something warm touch his head, and he realizes that Mycroft had grabbed his brolly. He then feels himself collapse when Mycroft closes the now-dry canopy. His brother’s grip is rather tight, betraying his nerves as the Aurors find the words to explain the situation. 

“Your brother vanished during our investigation in Wizarding London –”

“Head Auror Potter, I am aware that Sherlock was at Borgin and Burkes this morning, and he touched something he wasn’t supposed to touch. I suppose you have the object in custody?”

The Wizarding folk never really know how to deal with Mycroft. Everyone ends up underestimating him, to their detriment. Non-magical (and a stain to the family name per their parents and relatives) he may be, Mycroft is knowledgeable in most aspects of Wizarding life. He can participate in Wizarding forms of travel (although Sherlock had tried for years to get him on a broomstick), ingest Potions and he is certain that Anthea or another expert Legilimens had taught him Occlumency. The Muggle Minister often has Mycroft’s team negotiating with the Ministry of Magic, who are equally at sea in regard to how to deal with Mycroft. Indeed, Mycroft had found his own special niche in the world, and if someone had held Sherlock at wand-point, he may even say that he’s actually extremely proud of his brother. 

Potter looks surprised by Mycroft’s knowledge, although Lestrade only nods as he is more familiar with Mycroft. “Uh, yes. The object was removed after the appropriate warrant was granted, and our team of Curse Breakers are currently in the midst of figuring things out. Bill Weasley, the leader of our Curse Breakers, says that he hasn’t seen something like this, ever. We hope to –”

“Could it be possible that this artifact is responsible for the string of disappearances from the past three months? Of which I understand is causing much fervor within the Wizarding community –”

_ I am here! I am here! Over here!  _ Sherlock tries to shout. 

But they continue their conversation while Mycroft clenches tighter onto the handle – hiding his feelings in this way. It hurts though – Sherlock feels like he’s having his life squeezed out of him. Fuck. Why did he have to become a brolly that could in some way replicate the human experience?!

“Of that, Mr Holmes, we aren’t quite sure yet –”

“We hope that Sherlock didn’t go the way of the previous victims. We –” Lestrade hesitates.

“Haven’t found anything regarding the previous victims?” Mycroft finishes for them both. 

Sherlock could feel Mycroft’s hand give him another constricting squeeze. This one, Sherlock could interpret, is one to help his brother repress words pertaining to the incompetence of the Department of Law Enforcement. 

Indeed, things have somewhat improved since Potter had taken on the role of Head Auror, but still – the Aurors find themselves out of their depth and require Sherlock’s expertise quite often. Which is to say that Sherlock would never be out of a job. 

Both the Aurors cast a glance at each other, wincing slightly at Mycroft’s candid words. 

“We are…” Lestrade starts.

“We are working on it.” Potter finishes firmly, trying on one of his charismatic and reassuring smiles for Mycroft’s benefit (of which Sherlock is certain that Mycroft does not buy).

“We will let you know if we find out anything else.” Lestrade adds. 

“See that you do.” Mycroft says in that tone which he uses to dismiss his minions after instructions have been dished out. “Good day, Head Auror Potter, Auror Lestrade.” 

The two Aurors depart with Potter blinking at the dismissal. Mycroft shuts and rearms the door after them. His demeanour changes immediately to one of despair. Sherlock doesn’t need Legilimency to determine that Mycroft has very little confidence that the Aurors would be the ones to find him. 

_ Mycroft! Down here! Down here! It’s me… Sherlock! Just haunting your brolly! _

To his brother’s credit, he actually gives his trusty umbrella another look. But he only releases a sigh a minute later. Then Sherlock’s surroundings are moving again as Mycroft leaves the foyer and heads back upstairs to the master bedroom. 

There is the warm glow of one of the lamps by the bedside. Mycroft leans his brolly by the nightstand, and then he picks up one of the framed pictures that are on top of the nightstand. Sherlock is unable to see the subject of the picture from where he is propped against, but he sees Mycroft’s expression soften with a surprising amount of affection, although the sadness from downstairs still remains. 

Sherlock almost falls over in shock when he hears Mycroft speaking to the picture.

“Oh, you silly boy – Lock. Your curiosity is going to take you somewhere… somewhere where I cannot follow someday. And then, where would I be?”

A memory unfurls within Sherlock’s mind. Sherlock had just received his letter to Hogwarts. Unlike the intense joy that most of his classmates had, he had mixed feelings about it. He knew that their parents – members of the Most Noble House of Holmes – would be ecstatic that their youngest son would not be a squib, but he knew he was leaving Mycroft behind. Going into a world that had always looked down on those who were unfortunate enough to not be able to have their own magic. 

Hell, considering how Muggleborns with magic were treated in their world (even post-Voldemort), it’s not surprising that squibs are exiled to the darkest corners of society. Their parents had always been ashamed of Mycroft, and had been greatly relieved when their eldest son had opted to go away to Eton for a classical Muggle education. Of course, in their books – Mycroft is as good as dead to them. But Sherlock had never bought into this load of horseshit, and Mycroft and he had remained close until his brother had finally gone into Her Majesty’s service. 

He remembers nights of staying up late in the Ravenclaw Tower, scribbling off letters about his day. About what he had learned. His adventures and misadventures. How he dealt with people who had teased him (cruelly) for being… well him. And his brother would borrow an owl and return them whenever he could. With advice. Vignettes about his days. He remembers summers and even holidays of being in London together with Mycroft and all the fun things they had done. And then, they had drifted apart – becoming antagonists when Sherlock fell in love with recreational chemistry after he had graduated from Hogwarts – leaving his Potions Mastery unfinished. 

But… how did they fall apart? Sherlock doesn’t even quite remember. But there might have been multiple factors in play. He recalls deducing when Mycroft had gotten into his first relationship with another man. Actually, he had stumbled upon them snogging. His brother hadn’t told him about it. Sherlock had felt betrayed, even though he knew that it was none of his business. It had still hurt. He had felt things then. Confusing, uncomfortable things. He had started avoiding Mycroft then, and his brother had never sought him out after – conveniently being busy with climbing all the ladders to the top of the British Government. It was around maybe a year after when Sherlock had started dabbling with recreational potions and drugs. And then Mycroft had gotten all big-brotherly and controlling – and that had only brought out the worst in Sherlock. 

“I miss you, you know. I think about it often. How… how we used to be. How close we had been.” Mycroft whispers further to Sherlock’s astonishment. “You probably don’t know it, but you were my light when we had been young… you were the only one who treated me normally in a world that had counted me out. I was afraid, you know – when you went away to Hogwarts. I thought maybe you would change your mind about me like the rest of our kind had – but you proved me wrong. TIme and time again. I… I wouldn’t be where I am if it weren’t for you.” His brother bows his head. “I know you still hate me. But… Lock – you are still my light now. You don’t hate me for being me, you hate me for what I’ve done. I… I don’t know how to fix… I guess… us. You would laugh, Lock – but even I don’t have the answers to everything.” He then chuckles. “Guess this squib will have to do what an entire department of Aurors can not. And that is to find you. You would get a kick out of it, I am sure. Me doing legwork.”

Sherlock’s surroundings start to fall away followed by a loud  _ thunk _ . His head bloody hurts. Oh Merlin, somehow the brolly had fallen over! 

Mycroft gives the brolly another suspicious glance before shaking his head. “I think I am going mad, Lock.” 

Leaning over, he picks up the brolly and places it on the nightstand. “Best go to bed then. Goodnight, Lock.” He gives the picture another fond look, before putting it back on the nightstand. 

_ Good night, Mycroft.  _

His brother’s words have left him with a warm fuzzy feeling, and if Mycroft is on the case, Sherlock has every confidence that this nasty curse can be resolved.


	2. Chapter 2

“Morning, Sir. Any news about your brother?” Anthea inquires when Mycroft steps into his Whitehall office the next day.

Mycroft gives a weary sigh. He taps the ferrule of his brolly on the floor. Evidently whatever winks that big brother had managed to catch were not restful. “Then… you know that Aurors Potter and Lestrade came around to my humble abode the night before?”

“I… deduced it, Sir – although I wasn’t expecting the Head Auror himself to make a visit. Things must be serious then.” Anthea says gravely. Then more kindly, she asks. “Would you like a cuppa? It’s rather chilly today.”

“I would, Anthea. Thank you.” Mycroft heads toward his desk. “And Anthea, I think if I want to find my brother before Christmas, I would have to find himself myself.” 

“Mm… you have  _ that _ little confidence in my former colleagues, Sir?” There’s a twinkle in Anthea’s eyes.

Ah. So that’s where Anthea had come from. Sherlock had had his suspicions from before. Anthea is also not her real name. Sherlock could surmise that at least. 

Intriguing. 

“I’ve always stood by the adage that when one wants things done, it’s best to do it themself.” 

“Very right, Sir. I will be back with your coffee. Please do attend to your box in the meanwhile.” 

Mycroft gives a small sigh as Anthea turns tail to fetch the aforementioned beverage. 

The most enlightening moments, Sherlock has found over the last almost twenty-four hours are the times where his big brother is left to his own devices. The mask of the man known as the ‘Iceman’ in public falls, and beneath the walls is someone that reminds him of the brother he had known. Even Sherlock had forgotten that buried beneath the walls of ice is a human being. 

Mycroft hangs his brolly next to his coat, providing Sherlock with a convenient vantage point of his desk. He sits down and Sherlock finds himself admiring the bespoke tailoring of the three-piece suit that he wears. The suit is new. Savile Row. Gieves & Hawkes if Sherlock isn’t mistaken. Like his brother, Sherlock himself has a predilection for muggle designers even though he spends most of his time in the wizarding side of things. 

His brother’s eyes fall toward the red leather despatch box embossed with the golden royal cypher of the reigning monarch that sits at the corner of his desk. 

It’s surreal to see Mycroft perform his day-to-day rituals on behalf of the Queen (or was it King?). Sherlock could never quite remember. Mycroft pulls the box toward him, pulls out the key from his waistcoat and unlocks it. There is a sizable stack of documents. His brother takes them out, leafs through them with dissatisfaction, signs a few of them and puts a set aside to deal with later. 

It’s obvious that Mycroft is distracted. Finally, he pushes the box (still open) aside and boots up his desktop, tapping at the surface of his desk with his fingers impatiently – looking as if he wants to resume that smoking habit that he had quit again for the umpteenth time. 

Much to Sherlock’s surprise, his brother goes online and starts browsing the wizarding section of the internet. His brother skims over articles and even transcripts from the Auror interviews of the disappearances that Sherlock and Lestrade had been trying to solve over the past months. 

There’s a polite knock at the door, and Anthea comes in with a small tray. There is a mug of coffee and a few Christmas biscuits sitting on a plate. Sherlock is thankful that hunger isn’t a feature of being a brolly. His brother looks askance at the biscuits, his eyes traveling down to his belly and Sherlock wants to shout.  _ Just eat them! _ His brother had skipped breakfast on the way in and clearly really wanted to consume the biscuits. 

Sherlock has never felt more like an arsehole when Mycroft finally pushes aside the biscuits and sips at his coffee. 

“Sir?” 

“Yes, Anthea?”

“You said earlier… you wanted to find your brother before Christmas. I suppose that means you intend to have plans with him?”

Although Sherlock can’t see his brother’s face from where he lies, he could hear the pain in his voice. “I… I don’t expect anything from him, Anthea – I just want to know that he’s safe and sound. It’s all… I  _ could  _ ask of him.”

“Sir. I am just curious –”

“Ask away, Anthea.”

“Why do you –” Anthea appears somewhat uncomfortable. It’s clear that neither of them talk much about personal matters with each other if at all. 

“Why do I put so much stock into my brother?”

“Yes, Sir. When he only brings you so much pain…” 

“Because he gave me hope in a time where there was none. Because… once upon a time, we were close. So close that you couldn’t tell where one of us began and the other ended. I could… I could never give up on him, Anthea.” 

All Sherlock could feel is his heart plummeting at terminal velocity down a seemingly endless abyss. It is true, they had drifted apart during a time where most relationships break down. During their young adulthood where they had been both trying to scratch a living. To figure out their lives. Perhaps at that point, it had been no one’s fault in regard to the state of their relationship. But then Mycroft had extended olive branch after branch and Sherlock had rejected him, sometimes with a cruelty that would have destroyed a lesser man. 

Anthea gives Mycroft a look full of sympathy. His brother continues.

“I just… am not sure in terms of how our relationship became the way it is. I mean, I have my suspicions…” Mycroft shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. What matters to me is that we find out what happened, and fix it. I remember when we had been children, and Lock – well, I mean my brother had gotten lost when we were in Paris. I found him an hour later, and he was in tears – and I promised him that I would never leave him behind. I will, Anthea – keep my promises, regardless of whatever obstacle may be in my path.” 

“I wish you the best, Sir. Curses are both tricky and fickle creatures. But –” Anthea diverts the conversation back to a pile of papers that Mycroft had set aside.

Sherlock tunes them both out. He knows that Anthea hates his guts and always thought that Mycroft was wasting his valuable time with him. Oddly enough, he misses the ability to close his eyes. Somehow the night before, he had been able to lose consciousness and sleep. 

The buried memory of Paris comes back to him. 

The catacombs. Full of the bones of the dead. He had been fascinated by the skulls and the endless maze of tunnels. The idea of buried secrets and parties in the night. Back in the late 1700s when witch-hunts had been in vogue, Wizarding communities had taken advantage of the maze-like nature of the muggle-built catacombs to host gatherings, brew potions and practice the art of magic with a few magical adjustments to expand and hide their spaces. It had been the perfect type of space for a young adventurous boy to let his imagination go wild. 

Sherlock doesn’t remember why he had run off from his parents in the first place, but it was Mycroft that had found him somewhere grimy, dark and damp. He had wandered around until everything had started to look the same. As Mycroft had said, he had been crying. Not because of his surroundings, but at the fact that he was lost. Sherlock would later learn that there were enchantments in the catacombs that prevented locating spells from being used, rendering his parents’ efforts to find him futile. Mycroft had hugged him. Comforted him. And told him that he would never leave him behind. 

_ Mycroft! Mycroft!  _

He focuses his efforts on trying to communicate with his brother as he toils through the tasks that Anthea had left him to do. It’s all so very dull. How could big brother do this day in and day out? 

Although Sherlock doesn’t have a bodily form, somehow mentally shouting his brother’s name over and over again is exhausting. 

Just before noon, Sherlock gives it another attempt.

_ Mycroft! Over here!  _

And then he tries.

_ Cake!  _

His brother stops what he’s doing. He puts down his fountain pen and looks to the side, frowning. 

_Mycroft! Big brother! Behind you!_ _Please!_

Rising from his chair, Mycroft turns back to look. But then there is the familiar rap-tap-tap at the door and Anthea comes back in. 

Sherlock could almost yell in frustration. 

“Are you done with the papers, Sir? Lady Smallwood just called, asking for an appointment in regard to the –”

“Cancel all my afternoon appointments, Anthea. There’s nothing urgent in the calendar. I checked earlier. I can’t focus. And…” Mycroft turns his head slightly to gesture behind him. “If I am not imagining things, I swear I can hear my name every now and then.” 

“Oh, Sir. I am sure that is just worry and stress.”

Sherlock screams in desperation.

And then he feels himself being abruptly thrust into the air before gravity takes over, smacking him facedown(?) into the ground. 

_ Merlin fucking ouch!  _

Mycroft is suddenly at his side.

“Sir? Is it wise to touch your umbrella? I think it might be…”

“Cursed? Hm…” Mycroft examines his brolly thoughtfully. “Unlikely to be a stray curse, considering the protections you’ve placed on it previously. And I wasn’t near anyone magical yesterday aside from the Aurors and you. I might be a squib, Anthea – but I can tell who is magical and who is not.” 

Sherlock feels a soft pressure touch his face. It’s Mycroft gently wrapping his fingers around the handle of his brolly. “It is strange I must admit. My brolly… I can feel it calling me. I felt its pull yesterday when I was at home.”

Anthea is alarmed. “Perhaps I should take that from you, Sir… it doesn’t seem safe –”

_ Oh no. No. No. Merlin. Please. _ What if she destroys the brolly? Would he be… dead in that case? Or will that actually free his soul? 

Anyhow, it is not a risk that Sherlock is willing to take.

Some of his distress must have been conveyed as Mycroft wraps his arms around his brolly. It’s like… being given a hug. A nice one. When had Mycroft hugged him last? Sherlock can’t even remember. He lets himself sink into it. 

“Whatever it is, Anthea. I don’t think it’s malicious. If anything, it seems… distressed?”

“Sir, the stories I could tell you from Voldemort’s era about souls and possession –” Anthea begins to say, obviously displeased by Mycroft’s decision.

“I would know it, would I not? If something as terrible as what my brother likes to call Mouldywarts is living in my brolly?” Mycroft’s tone is jesting, but Anthea does not find it funny.

“Sir, this is not a joking matter!”

“But, Anthea – do you not think it's a mere coincidence that my brother disappears one day without a trace and on that same day, my brolly is showing signs of sentience? No. I think my constant companion is trying to tell me something. I intend to get to the bottom of this issue. I will owl this Weasley fellow and see –”

“Which Weasley?”

“I think they mentioned Bill last night. It might be worth a chat. I am going over to Baker Street now. I am sure Sherlock will not mind me using his owl.”

“Very well, suit yourself, Sir.” 

Sherlock is greatly amused by the unspoken ‘don’t let me say I told you so’ in the way Anthea has set her jaw. His brother can be obstinate when he wants to be. He wants to cheer and applaud Mycroft’s good instinct, and see where this all leads.

* * *

“Mr Holmes!” Mrs Hudson greets his brother at the door of 221B Baker Street. “Any news on our poor dear?”

“No recent developments I am afraid, Mrs Hudson.” 

“Auror Lestrade came by this morning to give me the news. I was thinking I ought to owl John, but the dear is in New Zealand with his girlfriend –”

“No need, Mrs Hudson. I am sure we can figure this out without Healer Watson.” 

His brother can maintain his neutral tone, but Sherlock can still hear the curl of his lip when it comes to the mention of his cheeky ex-soldier of a flatmate. Mycroft does not like him, even if he did manage to save Sherlock’s life the first day they’d met. Wizard or not, his brother had still managed to whisk John into one of his infamous warehouses. Now that he thinks about it, could Mycroft be possibly jealous of his short acquaintance with John? Whom Sherlock had found interesting from the get-go? The counterpoint of wizarding Healer and former ex-muggle army soldier? He remembers Mycroft inquiring, his tone sarcastically biting, but there had been an undercurrent of unhappiness within it.

> “Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week? 

“You… you are getting involved?” Mrs Hudson gives him a look of disbelief.

Relations between Sherlock’s landlady and Mycroft aren’t great either. It probably didn’t help that Sherlock had constantly made comments about Mycroft being overbearing, lazy, annoying – the list goes on and on. Or him chasing Mycroft out of the flat, egged on by his flatmate (who also had no love lost for Mycroft). 

John and Mrs Hudson are more recent additions to his life, and they won’t understand how deep (regardless of how fractured) their fraternity lies. That’s the thing with goldfish, they focus on what’s in front of them, but rarely unravel the truth. They move on to the next thing, unaware of what they had missed. Oh, and this is all complicated further by Mycroft’s inability to perform magic. Even the most open-minded of magicfolk end up pitying the squibs – and some of Mrs Hudson’s surprise at Mycroft’s undertaking stems from this. Sherlock could see the question churning in Mrs Hudson’s mind:  _ How’s a squib (regardless of how brilliant) going to solve a case that the Ministry’s finest could not tackle?  _

“Of course.” Mycroft replies, utterly unfazed. 

“But you… you –”

“Cannot use magic?” There’s amusement in Mycroft’s tone. 

“Yes! How could you possibly help? Best leave it the Aurors, Mr Holmes.”

“Mrs Hudson, the lack of magic does not preclude me from helping my brother. Sometimes, I find that Wizarding problems require simple non-magical solutions. I am going to go upstairs, if that’s alright with –”

“I was just dusting upstairs, Mr Holmes – it’s rare that I get an opportunity to do the cleaning –”

“Sherlock isn’t exactly the tidiest individual.” Mycroft nods as he mounts the stairs.

Mrs Hudson almost snorts as she follows him up the stairs. “Eyeballs. Pickled livers. The bloom of a corpse flower. Fingers. Dragon’s blood. Once, a severed head of a goblin! The robes of a dementor! Some slime in tubes that he called ‘DAN’ (or was it ‘DNA’?) samples. You never know what foul messes you would find up there. I thought I was done with such horrid things after I had graduated from Ilvermony.”

Mycroft lets Mrs Hudson ramble onwards. 

He moves Sherlock into his left hand, while his right fumbles in his coat pocket for the key. He slots the piece of metal in the slot, giving it a turn – and the door opens with a click. Mrs Hudson pushes past him with her wand arm unstretched. She gives a swish and flick, causing all the mops and brooms that had been magically tidying up the flat to vanish. 

“Tea?” She remembers her manners. 

“I am good, thanks. I won’t be long.”

When Mrs Hudson finally disappears from the flat, Mycroft gets to work. He gives the flat a cursory scan, looking for any evidence of the case that Sherlock had been looking at. Unfortunately, Sherlock didn’t have much to go on. Only the accounts from a few questionable eyewitnesses who supposedly saw the victims vanish and the clippings from the newspaper articles that Mycroft had been browsing earlier in the day online. 

His brother hesitates for a moment before attempting to open the door to Sherlock’s room. 

It’s locked. Magically. 

There isn’t much in there – only the makeshift brew space that Sherlock had created to make Potions and a tightly spiralling staircase that led up to his bedroom and the loo. Granted Sherlock not only keeps his space locked because of Mycroft – but also because his Potions equipment and ingredients are worth a pretty knut. Nor did he need anyone to mess around with his experimental (and questionably legal) brews! He’s pretty damned good at blowing up his own experiments himself, thank you very much! 

If it weren’t for Mycroft holding onto him, Sherlock would have fallen over in shock when his brother pulls out another key. It’s not a key to any old particular lock, but it’s from Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. It’s gold in colouration, with the store (or rather brand logo now) embossed on the head in purple. The idea of Mycroft going into Diagon Alley into that joke store full of vibrant chaos by himself is ludicrous. It’s funny, for Mycroft had used to avoid going into the Wizarding areas, but clearly this isn’t the case anymore. Or Anthea (the destroyer of brollies, or whatever her name is) had purchased them on Mycroft’s behalf. 

But anyways, Sherlock can hear Mycroft insert the key into the lock. These prank keys can’t open all locks reinforced with magic, but it covers a decent list of simple locking spells. They also work fantastically on non-magical locks as well. 

There’s an audible ‘click’ and a ‘poof’ that brings Sherlock unwanted memories of how he had gotten here to begin with as the key disappears into wherever vanished objects go after use. That is to say ‘non-being’. 

“Bet you didn’t see that coming, hm – Lock?” Mycroft chuckles to himself as he walks into Sherlock’s private sanctum. “Pity that these wheezes are one-use. Great for the bottom line though.” 

There are four cauldrons of pure gold sitting on the professional brewer’s bench under a simple stasis charm. Although Sherlock cannot see Mycroft’s face from where he is oriented, he could hear his brother’s breaths slow and deepen as he inhaled the fumes. 

Oh. This is fascinating. 

His brother has never come into contact with Amortentia before. Sherlock is certain. Not many brewers could make this potent potion of infatuation. 

Sherlock hadn’t even been sure he could until he had tried his hand at it. But then again, he isn’t sure that his Potion would work, as he has no intentions of ever using it for its original purpose. In the wrong hands, it could prove disastrous. But he had been approached by a friendly business contact and the challenge proposed by him had been too good to pass up. An excuse to brew a notoriously difficult potion that he wouldn’t otherwise get to brew in his lifetime. And if the idea worked, well – Sherlock would probably never have to worry about finances ever again.

What is Mycroft smelling – anyways? Expensive suits? The scent of his cowering enemies? Successful plots and intrigues carried out from afar? The smell of minor countries toppled by his own hand? Does such power even have a scent?

But it's obvious that Mycroft is very much affected. 

Mycroft steps forward toward the bench. 

“Hm. Lock. I think I know what you are brewing. A mother-of-pearl sheen. The characteristic spiraling fumes. The smells of the things I am fond of. Every child growing up with wizarding fairytales would know. But… why do you need a love potion, silly boy? And for who?” 

It's almost a shame that brollies can’t laugh. Sherlock would be rolling on the ground just about now. In hysterics. 

Mycroft thinks he’s in love with someone! Hm. Who does Mycroft think Sherlock has fallen in love with? Surely not that Adler woman! 

Sherlock is certain that he is all brain. Love isn’t something that he’s too interested in finding, although John seems to be throwing himself at any pretty woman and hoping that love strikes. Hell, he’s gone across the world with one of those birds! In an airplane! It’s irrational, messy and when it goes wrong, it keeps Sherlock employed.

“I wonder… what is it that you smell, Lock?” Mycroft turns his attention to the notebook that Sherlock had left open. 

Oh. Dear. Merlin. Sherlock still remembers what is scribbled on that page. All the scents that everyone in the flat could smell from his brews.

> Mrs Hudson: the sea, freshly baked bread, herbal soothers, her special sherry, one of Frank’s old shirts 

> John: coffee, petrichor, the Afghan desert, Sarah’s perfume, gunpowder, the residual smell of blasting curses, Essence of Dittany 

> Sherlock: English breakfast, brewing potions, new clothes, parchment and ink, Strad, xylenes, residual magic, particularly after a duel, musky  
>  manly  
>  unidentified scent (Addendum: smells like sweat and earth) 

“I guess you are collecting data then, Lock?” Mycroft’s voice is indulgent. “Maybe… I can help you add another data point.” 

By Circe, is Mycroft addled by the fumes? Sherlock hasn’t heard his brother like this… well since their relationship had drifted off to sea. 

He can hear Mycroft search for one of his self-inking quills and the scratches of the nib across the paper of his lab book. A wave of nostalgia sweeps through him. His brother had done this before. Helped him out with his little experiments in whatever capacity Sherlock had needed him in. The period in his life where time with Mycroft was treasured. If only he had known that there had been a limited quantity of such precious time! 

Unfortunately his brother does not say out loud what he had written. Damn. Sherlock would have to wait for this curse to be lifted in order to see. Then he feels the warm touch of Mycroft again, his digits wrapping around the handle of his brolly. They are off again. This time up the spiralling staircase to his lofty bedroom. 

Mycroft is greeted by a hoot. 

Zaitzev sits in a dignified way on his perch like a king. 

He is a magnificent species of eagle owl. 

Sherlock’s owl would recognize Mycroft. It had been his brother that had bought him for him before Sherlock had left for Hogwarts. Mycroft had lived vicariously through him, rather than letting jealousy poison their relationship. Sherlock had always gone to him for help in all matters when he had been a child. If Mycroft wasn’t there, he would go through the family house-elves. His parents… well… the less words said about them the better.

Although, there had been moments where Mycroft had been envious. Of Sherlock’s membership in a world that had so thoroughly rejected him. Mycroft had never acted on it, but Sherlock had caught those moments in his blue eyes. Later, when he had been older and handy with a wand – Sherlock had glared at everyone who had dared whisper or gossip about Mycroft in his vicinity. If they didn’t desist, Sherlock knew some subtle jinxes and hexes that would make one’s life difficult for the next few hours. He had done that once at one of Mummy’s fashionable parties, and it's safe to say that it is one of the last straws that had gotten him disowned. 

From his coat pocket comes out some owl treats. Mycroft had come prepared. 

Zaitzev makes happy sounds and takes the offerings, giving Mycroft an affectionate nip afterwards. 

“Long time no see, Zev.”

“Hoo-hoot!”

“Your wayward Master has gotten himself into another quandary. I hope to return him to you soon in one piece.”

“Hoo!” 

If the situation wasn’t so bloody unfunny, Sherlock might have found the exchange amusing. It seems that his owl and his brother have a ‘secret’ friendship of sorts. Certainly this isn’t the first time such a conversation had occurred. Mycroft may have visited in the past when Sherlock wasn’t home to make use of Zaitzev whenever he had to post something by owl. Rather than borrow Anthea’s owl. Well… that is if she still had one. Sherlock isn’t even sure how involved in the wizarding side of things Anthea is these days, but if he had to hazard a guess – it might even be less than Mycroft. 

“I’ve got a letter for you.”

Zaitzev swivels his head to look curiously at Mycroft. “Hoo?” But he offers a foot to his brother, and Mycroft affixes his communication to the limb. 

“For Mr Bill Weasley. I would like you to go posthaste, Zev. And to pester him for a response to the best of your abilities.”

“Hoot!” It’s a rather affirming agreement.

Then curiously, Zaitzev turns his head again, this time looking toward Sherlock who is propped up against the brewing bench. 

“Whooo?” 

“You too?” Mycroft strokes the owl’s feathers. “Something funny is going on with my brolly. I only wish you could talk, because Anthea thinks I am barmy. And bring the response back to my place, would you?” 

“Who-oo-hoot!” 

As Sherlock’s bedroom window is already open, Zaitzev launches himself into the air and wings out of sight. 

* * *

“Where are you, Lock?” Mycroft has the framed picture of Sherlock in his hand again. 

They are back in the master bedroom. Sherlock is lying on the nightstand after having been forced into watching one of Mycroft’s favourite movies. His brother is freshly showered and attired in a pair of comfortable pyjamas. A dull Friday evening. Does his brother even date anymore? Sherlock has no idea, even though he’s never seen traces of a significant other on Mycroft’s person over the past few years. 

_ Here! Here! _

Sherlock has been trying to communicate with his brother throughout the day, but aside from his grand leap when Anthea had been talking to Mycroft, he hasn’t been able to break through. It’s incredibly frustrating, and Sherlock finds himself exhausted by his attempts. Maybe he is doomed to remain as Mycroft’s brolly for the rest of his life. 

And what of the other victims over the last few months? If that artifact had taken hold of them, they could be spending their time in other objects. Sherlock grimaces –  _ things could be worse though.  _ He could be haunting a loo roll for instance. Or even a plunger. Hm. But why Mycroft’s brolly? Surely there must be some thought behind this seemingly ridiculous curse? It’s not exactly like Mycroft and he are close… far from it! 

No. If the artifact had wanted to put him in proximity to the person he spent the most time with, would it not send him into John’s RAMC mug? His flatmate had an unholy attachment to it, threatening to hex Sherlock’s bollocks off when he had attempted to purloin it for one of his experiments. Or maybe even his gun? But then again, the gun and the mug spent most of their time hidden away in dark spaces, and that wouldn’t do at all for Sherlock. He would go mad with boredom. In retrospect, Mycroft’s brolly was not a bad place to be. Or maybe that’s just the Stockholm Syndrome speaking.

“And what is wrong with my brolly?” Mycroft muses, reaching over for Sherlock. He scrutinizes the faithful companion. “This is mine – most certainly.” The fingers run along the handle, where an identifying monogram is engraved. “It almost feels as if there’s… something… or someone stuck in here. Calling for… me?”

_ Mycroft! Mycroft! Help me!  _

His brother frowns. Sherlock has a good view of his face from where he is positioned. 

“You know me.” Mycroft speaks directly to the brolly. “I can hear my name. Constantly. Yet… I don’t know who you are. Are you… my brother?” 

_ Yes. Yes. Yes! YES! _

Mycroft doesn’t seem to pick up on it. He shakes his head with dissatisfaction. “This is crazy. I am probably hearing things –”

_ NO! Please! My… you’ve got to get me out of here! _

“Why don’t you try doing something?”

_ I would if I could… _ Sherlock thinks bitterly when Mycroft stands the brolly on the ferrule – giving him a view of his pyjama clad knees. His brother lets it go, and Sherlock could feel the sensation of gravity urging him downward. He tries to fight it – like he would if had been human – but nature wins and sends him crashing painfully downward onto Mycroft’s hard wooden floor. This whole fiasco makes Sherlock want to cry. 

“Shh…” Hands pick him up again. It seems that Mycroft can pick up on his strong emotions. And whenever he utters Mycroft’s name. “That was just a silly thoughtless experiment. I am... sorry. I can… feel your distress. And perhaps, frustration. To be honest, you sound kind of like him. My brother. The way you call my name. But yet, it’s not the same. It reminds me…” Mycroft scrunches his face slightly in pain. “Of when we still were close. I am sorry I was… suspicious of you. Anthea sent me several texts earlier regarding what she calls horcruxes. Or rather, pieces of soul that have been left behind in either objects or other living beings after a particularly  _ dark _ piece of magic has been performed by the person in question. And that these objects have a tendency to influence whoever is nearby or interacting with it in negative ways.” Mycroft then chuckles lightly. “I sound like a loony talking like this, hm? Not so much the ‘Iceman’? Anthea would say that you are trying to manipulate me with your distress, but I think that’s just the old jaded ex-Auror in her. I’ve always wondered what drove her away from the magical community. Anyhow, that’s neither here nor there.” He draws a breath and continues. “I don’t know if you are Lock, but whatever you are – we will get to the bottom of this.” 

Sherlock wonders if Mycroft’s habit of talking to an imaginary him (or a picture of him) is something that happens frequently. His brother doesn’t have friends. Only acquaintances and the people he works with. Nor does he have a significant other. There are a few framed pictures on his nightstand and they share one thing. They are all pictures of him! Sherlock! His brother seems to live a lonely life. The type of life Sherlock had led before he had taken a flatmate. 

He wonders what made Mycroft stop dating? 

“I wish you could speak.” Mycroft says to Sherlock. “If you are my brother, I wonder what you are thinking about at this moment.” He pauses for a moment, looking thoughtful, before remarking self-deprecatingly. “Who am I fooling? You would hate to be here. You know, it’s been years since we’ve been together, voluntarily. Brother mine. Always trying to make excuses to leave whenever we are together. Always trying to chase me out of your presence, your flat and your life. I took it for granted, Lock – that I would always have you.” Mycroft hangs his head in despair. “Perhaps a regular sibling would have taken the hint and left you alone… but I… I… can’t. I tried. You know. Throughout the years. I had to keep my promises. The promises I made to you when you were a wee little thing. That… I would always be there. Like you had been for me, when I was younger.” Mycroft then turns to look at the picture on the nightstand. “You seem happy these days with Healer Watson. You’ve moved on into adulthood. You have a job. A respectable one. I am proud of you, Lock – even if you’ve never asked for validation from me. I am the one who has failed to move on. And with that – I think I will answer the call of my pillow and sleep. Goodnight – Lock…”

As Mycroft falls asleep, Sherlock is wide awake as he mulls over his brother’s words. 

It’s hard to reconcile Mycroft’s sentiments with the front that he puts up whenever he meets with Sherlock. All aloof and icy! But they had never been good at talking about feelings in their adulthood. Not that Sherlock would have let him initiate such a discussion anyways. Perhaps… he would have to rethink his relationship with his brother when he does manage to get out of this brolly. That is… if he ever does.

* * *

There is a rap-tap-tap at the window the next morning. Mycroft stands up from his dining table where he had been eating his breakfast and proceeds to let the eagle owl swoop into the kitchen. There is the clatter of talons as the owl lands on the table. 

“Hoo-hoo!” 

“Morning Zev.” Mycroft says fondly. “I see you’ve brought a response back.” 

“Whoot!” The eagle owl seems pleased at his work.

Sherlock – lying near his brother’s plate of traditional breakfast fare – could see Mycroft undo the communication from Zaitzev’s extended leg. 

“I haven’t forgotten your treats either.” Mycroft brings a dish containing some owl treats.

“Whoo-oo!” 

As the big eagle owl devours his treats (and even some of Mycroft’s rashers), his brother reads the message out loud (perhaps – for Sherlock’s benefit).

__

> _Dear Mr Holmes,  
>  _
> 
> _ Yes. Of course we can meet to talk about your brother’s disappearance. I must confess that my schedule is rather packed next week, but do have an open slot at eleven on the coming Monday. I have my suspicions in regard to the nature of the curse that has befallen your brother and possibly the other victims. Even if it is what I think it is, I am afraid that this is only the beginning. Meet me at ‘The Green Dragon’ in Diagon Alley and ask for Bill. _
> 
> _ Have courage! _
> 
> _ Bill Weasley  _

Mycroft runs off to find the quills and parchments he keeps in his study to write a reply. 


	3. Chapter 3

On Monday morning, to Sherlock’s surprise – Mycroft heads to Baker Street first. Mrs Hudson isn’t present, so soon his brother is standing unimpeded in Sherlock’s bedroom. His reason for being in Sherlock’s domain becomes clear when he starts rifling through Sherlock’s wardrobe – looking for something suitable to wear. Perhaps big brother and he should make a trip to get Mycroft some bespoke wizarding outfits of his own whenever he gets out of this bloody brolly! 

Mycroft examines the selection carefully, taking various robes out, shaking his head and putting them back in. It takes him a long while to decide on a pair of pinstriped robes that Sherlock had only ever worn once. He sheds his outerwear and puts on the robes over his crisp white shirt and red tie. His brother sighs resignedly –  _ it will have to do  _ – after examining himself in the mirror that Sherlock had charmed silent a long while ago. 

If Sherlock had his magic capabilities, he would have offered to alter the robes to suit his brother. The robes are a little tight in certain areas, in consideration to their different physiques. His brother also takes Sherlock’s dragonhide boots, gloves and the spare bag of golden galleons. Finally before he leaves the flat, he grabs Sherlock’s spare cloak and puts it on. 

Soon, they are in Mycroft’s Jag. His brother is uncharacteristically nervous, tapping the ferrule of the brolly against the floor. Staccato double-taps, over and over again. It’s a strange sensation, rather like being bounced like a baby. Not that Sherlock remembers being treated as such. 

“I haven’t gone to Diagon since… since the last time we’ve gone together, Lock.” Mycroft starts speaking mid-journey. “Usually for my duties, we use the fireplace in the Prime Minister’s office. It's connected directly to the Ministry. I… I dread going. I fear that all I will see is the ghosts of our former selves. That I will see how happy we once were. Or at least, I was. I looked forward to the holidays – knowing that that was when I would see you. I would wait for you at King’s Cross, and you would greet me with a fierce hug – your trunk floating behind you, or when you were older – shrunk to fit in your pocket. We would get fish and chips at our favourite chippie and sneak over to Diagon for ice cream. You would always want to go to the apothecary or the Weasley joke shop…” 

Mycroft continues reminiscing, and Sherlock tries to convey a sense of calm. A sense of ‘everything will be okay’ even though he isn’t sure if that would be true. He can’t imagine what it is like for someone without magic to enter a world full of it. Alone. Even if Mycroft had spent his childhood growing up in a magical ‘pureblood’ household.

“Anthea would kill me if she knew I was coming here alone.” Mycroft muses just as the Jag pulls over to the kerb, having reached the Leaky. “I… I’ve never been to Diagon without you, Lock. Well, here goes nothing.” His brave brother takes a minute to put himself together before heading out to the pub that would bring him to Diagon Alley.

* * *

It doesn’t take long for Mycroft to find ‘The Green Dragon’, one of the nicer pubs that Diagon Alley had to offer. The store logo features a common Welsh green – a breed of dragon native to the British isles, curled up in a ball with smoke lazily rising from its nostrils. In deference to the festive season, a Santa hat had been added to the dragon’s head. Several strands of colourful lights blink in pre programmed patterns just beneath the store’s sign. 

A chime goes off when Mycroft pushes the door open. He is immediately greeted by a house-elf, clad in a clean green pillowcase, embroidered with golden thread. 

“How can Aggy be helping you, Sir?”

“Hullo, Aggy – I am looking for Bill.” Mycroft says politely to the house-elf. 

The house-elf smiles. It’s evident that not all patrons are as nice as Mycroft to house-elves even in this day and age. Sherlock and Mycroft had practically been raised by elves and aside from them, the only other source of affection they had had was from each other. “Ah, Mistah Bill! He says he be late a few minutes. But, Aggy will show you to his table. Follow me, Mistah!”

“Thank you, Aggy.”

“Only is doing my job, Sir!” 

Mycroft is led to a private room at the back, after walking through a dimly lit interior – containing a few wizards and witches engrossed in a replay of a recent Quidditch League game on the big screens on the walls. There are various antiques related to the old-age sport of dragon-hunting mounted everywhere, including a preserved dragon’s skull. 

A ‘boom!’ catches Mycroft off guard – and he turns around to see a rueful looking wizard staring at one of the billiard tables. Ah. Wizarding billiards – a fun game that Sherlock has played a few times where if one doesn’t sink the ball into the hole, it could explode, apparate somewhere else on the table, multiply – and do other annoying things. 

“Want anything to drink, Mistah?”

His brother thinks for a bit after he sits down before he says. “A tumblerful of your finest scotch?”

“Of course, Mistah! Aggy will grab that for you right away!” 

There’s a quiet ‘crack’ and the house-elf disappears. 

Mycroft starts bouncing his brolly again, and Sherlock wonders if it is possible for a brolly to become… seasick? Motion-sick? Certainly he couldn’t throw up in this state, can’t he? Merlin, his brother must really be nervous. In clothes that don’t quite fit him like his three-piece suits. And in a world that looks down upon squibs? But his brother would have nothing to fear from the Weasleys, who were the last people to ostracize anyone for the circumstances of their birth. 

“Mr Holmes! A pleasure to meet you!” 

Mycroft stands up, seeing the eldest Weasley brother. Sherlock can tell that his brother is somewhat taken aback. Bill is clad in custom dragon leathers and a pair of rugged muggle jeans. His long red curls cascade down his shoulders and in his ear, dangles his characteristic fang earring. He gives a borderline flirtatious wink to Mycroft, and Sherlock practically groans. Newly (and messily) divorced (Marriages with those with Veela blood, Sherlock finds, can go swimmingly until they… don’t. With high drama and sometimes… homicide. Or nasty hexes.), Bill is obviously looking to other avenues for love. 

His brother shakes Bill’s hand. 

“Mr Weas –”

“None of that, mind you. It’s Bill. And if I may – can I call you – Mycroft? It’s too confusing otherwise with Sherlock and you –”

“Oh um… but of course…” 

“And… I really must apologize – I didn’t realize you were a squi-I mean – unmagical. I would have asked to meet in Muggle London otherwise.”

“No worries, Bill.” 

Lady Smallwood must be jealous. Sherlock grins briefly (can brollies even smile?) when Bill’s first name falls so easily from Mycroft’s lips, but then again… his brother is gay. And Bill is so much easier on the eyes than Mycroft’s overzealous colleague.

There is a ‘pop’ and Aggy is back, bearing a tumblerful of expensive scotch, and Bill’s preference – a glass of Ogden’s Finest. 

“You’ve… you’ve been here before then?” Bill inquires.

“Yes. With my brother so long ago.”

“Then you two were close before? Harry mentioned an antagonistic relationship –”

“We weren’t always at each other’s throats. We were close. As close as two human beings could possibly be. And then… life separated us.” 

Damn. Mycroft is checking him out. Sherlock can see it, and strangely… he doesn’t like it. Or maybe it's not so strange… It reminds him of the time when he had stumbled upon Mycroft and his first serious beau. 

The curse breaker is older than his brother by a few years, but still – even Sherlock has to admit that he’s improved in looks with age. Bill gives off the impression of an adventurer – like that Indiana Jones character that John had enjoyed watching on the telly. And he probably had been having expeditions of a similar ilk before taking on more of a desk-job role at the Ministry during his travels around the world to deal with exotic curses. A caveat – Bill does have three children and Sherlock can’t picture his brother with any sort of progeny. 

Bill gives him a sympathetic look after leaning forward a little. His hand reaches over to cover Mycroft’s. And most astonishingly, Mycroft lets him maintain contact. “Mycroft – you remind me a little of my younger brother… George. He was… he was part of a pair of twins. They were so close – they did everything together. And then… Fred… Fred was killed at the Final Battle. Merlin. It took me at least a year to be able to say that sentence. They –”

“They were the ones who founded Weasley Wizard Wheezes, weren’t they? My personal assistant enjoys ordering their products via Owl Order. And my brother… he goes there quite often from what I understand.”

“Yes. Exactly. George… he never was the same after Fred’s death. I can’t imagine personally what it was like to be… two parts of a whole. And… he has that aloofness about him. That distance that he keeps from other people. Time has improved it, but I see it in you too. That… loneliness. It’s… not obvious… but it’s there.” Bill then smiles somberly. “But at least your brother is still somewhere. Not beyond the Veil – or what we wizards call the great beyond. The realm of the shadows. And where there’s life… I say there’s always hope. Even if you two have a difficult relationship –”

Aggie pops back, and she brings food. Mycroft hadn’t ordered anything, but Aggie brings him a sizable puff pastry pie in the shape of a fish with sides of salad and thick-cut chips and Bill a pair of lobster rolls with chips and a creamy soup. 

“Your lunch, Mistahs! I have dessert when you two are ready for it!”

“Thank you, Aggs!” 

“Oh, but you shouldn’t –”

Bill smiles. “They won’t take any money from me here. I solved a nasty generational curse that had plagued the proprietor’s family several years back, rendering the males sterile. It was one of the highlights of my career, I do have to say. It’s always excruciatingly difficult to tackle an ancient curse that dates back centuries. Magic has a tendency to get comfortable and sets in over time.” 

“The artifact my brother touched –” 

Mycroft finally gets to point as he picks up his fork to devour the fishy pie. It’s evidently good, as his brother has several forkfuls in succession. For once, Sherlock finds himself envious of the human condition to be able to eat. It certainly smells enticing.  _ Circe! He doesn’t even have a bloody nose!  _ But then again, Voldemort could smell and his nose had pretty much melted off his face…

“Is an ancient one. My favourite type of case. From the hidden runes engraved within the wood, there are several components to it –”

“Runes?” Mycroft wonders out loud.

“Oh yes! Runes. It’s one way to apply magic that doesn’t require the use of a wand. Each symbol has meaning, and great crafters are able to stitch them together and use it to create great things. Sometimes… terrible things. Like that artifact that your brother touched. I can’t say I blame him, to be honest. The first thing I noticed was a little compulsion charm. Some people are more susceptible to it than others. Particularly the impulsive type.”

Sherlock could almost sense Mycroft’s wry little smile. Merlin damn it! He hadn’t even noticed this little charm and only one simple touch had gotten him into this predicament! 

“We curse breakers are trained to notice such things before getting to work. But anyways. I was able to figure out some of it. There’s a transportation part to it. The transfer of a person to somewhere else. That’s the simplest portion. And then it gets tricky. Fast. There’s a rune that I’ve only seen used once on that little wardrobe. It refers to the soul. If I translated it properly – the curse intends to place its victims’ souls in close proximity to the ones they are… fated for.”

“Fated for? Whatever does that mean, Bill?” Mycroft pauses, his fork frozen in midair. 

“Have you ever heard of Love Theory?”

“What the bloody hell is that?” Mycroft asks (which is exactly what Sherlock is wondering.) It sounds like a whole bunch of mumble-jumble.

Bill chuckles lightly. “It’s related to the age old argument about whether people are already paired off before birth in terms of optimal compatibility and we are drawn towards them in our lifetimes or we have free choice to pick amongst individuals. This curse seems to play with the idea that there is someone already out there for its victims, and brings them literally to them. To put it simply… the curse transports the victim to their intended. Or if you want to be fanciful, Mycroft – to their soulmate.”

“This sounds… absurd!” Mycroft puts down his fork just as Sherlock finds himself falling onto the ground with a clatter in shock. 

Him and Mycroft? Soulmates?  _ Has the world gone bloody mad?  _

“What… was that?” Bill looks confusedly at Sherlock. 

“Oh…” Mycroft laughs lightly. “It’s just my umbrella. It’s been behaving a little wonky since Sherlock vanished. “It’s almost as if it’s possessed.”

“Possessed?! May I?” Bill sees Mycroft’s curt nod before he reaches downward for it.

Sherlock shudders at Bill’s touch. He really doesn’t like being touched by other people… with the exception of… Mycroft. 

“It doesn’t seem to like you touching it.” 

“Oh!” Bill takes out his wand and casts a few diagnostic spells over the brolly. It’s not a very comfortable sensation as the foreign magicks wash all over Sherlock. “Fascinating. This is a non-magical brolly, is it?”

“Yes. I had it custom made by a notable brolly-maker. Muggle.”

“Well. Mycroft… it has recently acquired a magical signature. A few days old. Perhaps, I should take it for –”

_ No. No. No. NO!  _ Sherlock adamantly projects his dissatisfaction to the room at large. He finds himself being lurched upwards once more (out of Bill’s hands), and he hits the pub floor once again. 

_ Fuck. Ow…  _

_ That really hurt… _

“It… doesn’t want you to take it.”

“Certainly does seem that way.”

There’s another hand touching Sherlock, and it's Mycroft’s. It’s warm, comforting and he feels himself being cradled in Mycroft’s arms. 

_ If it feels this good with him in a brolly, how good would it be in person? _

Sherlock quickly ejects the thought out of mind. Bill must be mistaken. They can’t be soulmates! They are brothers, for Merlin’s sake! 

“It’s… sentient.” Mycroft remarks. “I know I sound crazy –”

“Mycroft. I’ve seen many insane things over my lifetime. This barely scratches the surface of crazy!” 

“Would it be even more alarming if I told you that I think it's my brother that’s trapped in my brolly?”

Bill is silent for a moment, and then he says. “You two were close once. As you said.”

“Sherlock would think the soulmate stuff is rubbish –”

“That wouldn’t be an uncommon thought. But soulmates are simply people who are the most compatible with each other. I don’t think it necessarily means that every relationship between soulmates is successful –”

Someone’s phone starts ringing. Unexpectedly, it’s not Mycroft’s. It’s Bill’s. The curse breaker pulls it out reluctantly, looks at the screen and says apologetically. “Gosh… I have to take this, Mycroft.” 

He accepts the call. 

“Bill here.”

“Say… what? Repeat that for me one more time.”

“Oh. Dear. I told him to stay away from my workroom!”

“Alright, alright – I will be back soon! Ciao!”

Bill hangs up and looks sheepish. “We have another victim to the artifact. One of my apprentices. I am so sorry, Mycroft – I really must fly. I will owl you again with more information as it comes. Hopefully we can extract your brother soon from wherever he is. And of course, you may owl me with any questions or if you figure out anything more about the magic in your brolly. It could be your brother – but it could be from another cause too. It’s only a shame that magical cellphones are incompatible with muggle ones. Feel free to stay and drink, if you like. I trust that you can make it back to wherever you need to be?”

Mycroft waves him off. “Go see to your apprentice.”

“Of course. It was a pleasure, Mycroft.” 

Bill gives Mycroft a look that Sherlock really does not appreciate. 

_ Damn it, Bill! Stop hitting on my brother!  _

His brother smiles. Not one of his ‘Iceman’ smiles, but a genuine one. “Of course. I must thank you for your time. It was most… informative. And you are tolerable company.”

Bill winks. “You sure do know how to give a wizard a compliment. I bid you adieu, Mycroft – and we will see each other again. Soon.” 

As Bill walks out of the room, Mycroft settles in to finish his hearty fare. 

Meanwhile, Sherlock tries to process the magnitude of the news that he had just been dealt. It is certainly a lot to chew on.

* * *

“Hey! You – what are you doing here?!”

Sherlock is suddenly on the alert when a burly wizard aggressively starts approaching Mycroft as his brother opts to have a walk around Diagon to work off his meal before heading back to his office. His brother keeps walking, but is forced to stop when another person – a witch this time cuts him off.

“You lot don’t belong here – squib!” She hisses, her wand arm outstretched.

_ Fuck.  _ If there’s one thing Sherlock has noted after the war, it’s how things do not change. People are still prejudiced against others who are different from them. Others that they do not understand. Muggleborns and half-bloods have it easier after Voldemort’s demise, but things aren’t so true for the other factions of wizarding life. 

Squibs in particular are offensive to society. Maybe… just maybe they are hated because they represent a possibility that it could have been them. With Wizarding lineage, but with the inability to cast magic. Even more so with their noble ‘pureblood’ heritage. 

And the vendetta against squibs have only worsened in recent years with the most infamous squib of all time – Moriarty. Sherlock’s greatest nemesis that has caused much chaos and havoc in Wizarding Britain and even abroad. Well, until Sherlock had gotten turned into a brolly. The man had compensated for his lack of magical ability with brains, charm, good looks, the ability to attract clever talent and the forging of runic equipment such as golden armbands to make him invulnerable to magic and to grant him other special abilities. Decked out in all his gear, Moriarty had looked like a mecha. Or a robot-man of sorts. An iconic (and intimidating) appearance for a supervillain. 

Such equipment is illegal now, but Sherlock and the Aurors still possess the surviving pieces of Moriarty’s clever creations. Also, a certain design of silver collar once made by Moriarty’s men is now being employed in Azkaban – to suppress the magical ability of its prisoners. Effectively turning them into squibs. Despite all that, Moriarty is dead now. Having killed himself in a futile attempt to get one over Sherlock. But the fear – the loathing – had only intensified in magical society. 

It’s ridiculous, that out of all people to target – they had decided on the man whose sibling had defeated Moriarty. But unfortunately, Sherlock is in no state to defend his brother. He could only watch helplessly – and it's the most infuriating situation that Sherlock has ever been in. 

“I-I am just leaving!” Mycroft has put his arms up, realizing that he is outnumbered and ‘outgunned’ by the opposition. Sherlock has never felt such a turmoil of emotions from his brother – for Mycroft has realized that there is no use arguing with such magical goldfish with their minds warped by hate.

“You abomination!”

“How dare you sully our noble streets!” The witch shrieks. 

“We will purge the world of your ilk!” 

Sherlock would laugh if it weren’t so serious. Because of the nature of squibs, they would never disappear as long as wizardkind existed. Unless a cure is found for such a condition. 

_ Stupid idiotic goldfish!  _

But the next moments happen in a blink of the eye. The (now three) individuals have their wands raised; there is a jumble of incantations, a yell of pain and then an explosion – a pulse of intense energy seeming to radiate from Sherlock – followed by unintelligible screams and a loud crack. 

Then everything goes dark.


	4. Chapter 4

“What in the bloody hell?!?” 

A familiar voice startles Sherlock into wakefulness.

“Oh Mother of Merlin – you are… bleeding! All over my carpet too! Hang on – I’ve got this!” 

It’s George Weasley – the backer of Sherlock’s newest Potions’ project. 

“Episkey!” A moment later, Sherlock could hear George curse. “Bloody hell – it’s not doing anything! What did they hit you with? Sectumsempra? Wait, wait – don’t you dare pass out on me, old chap! I know this – it’s how my old ear got cut off – Vulnera Sanentur…” George proceeds to repeat the incantation thrice in a singsong manner, waving his wand in an expansive manner. After a moment, he appears satisfied with his handiwork before remarking. “You are bloody lucky that you came across me… I am a wizard with an unusual set of skills. How did you get in here anyways? I’ve got the strongest anti-apparition wards possible set up in here! Hang on a tick – I’ve seen that cloak before… it’s Sherlock’s – but you aren’t Sherlock!”

He can hear Mycroft mumble feebly. “Not… Sherlock… brother… mine.”

_ Oh god. Is Mycroft dying?  _

Sherlock starts to panic.

“Hold up a moment – you are his brother! Mycroft! You are going into hypovolemic shock – think I’ve got some Blood-Replenisher here. And some serious pain-killing potions.” George disappears for a quick second, before coming back with his robe pockets filled with clinking vials. “You are a squib right? Will potions –”

“Yes.” Mycroft says in a laboured manner.

George squats down and starts emptying vial after vial into Mycroft’s mouth. “Perhaps I ought to bring you to St. Mungo’s – I am good at this Healing business, but by Merlin – you almost exsanguinated before my eyes! What brings you here anyways?”

“Attacked…”

“Bloody hell! I ought to give Harry a ring. Okay that should be it for now. Your clothes are absolutely ruined, anyhow. Waste of time trying to mend things hit by curses like that. But you need to be somewhere warm and comfortable at this moment, and the floor of my apartment is anything but! I am going to levitate you, Mycroft –”

“Brolly… my brolly – important… where is –”

“Your brolly? It’s here. Mycroft – it’s here. It’s all fine. I’ve got it.” George picks Sherlock up, showing him to Mycroft’s alarmingly dimmed eyes. But there is some colour returning to Mycroft’s pale cheeks as it takes a little time for the blood replenishers to work. George had removed the badly torn robes, shirt and cloak, revealing the full extent of the damage. Lacerations covering his right shoulder and extending down his chest. 

Clearly this is an attempt to kill with Sectumsempra, a dark cutting curse. George’s magic had stanched the bleeding, but Sherlock is sure that these scars will remain. And despite the miserable look on Mycroft’s face, Sherlock finds himself examining the rest of his brother’s torso, admiring the trim yet soft belly and even the fur on his brother’s chest. Merlin – who knew his brother was so furry under his suits? 

George stands up, his wand arm outstretched. “Come on – let me levitate you to bed. I apologize for the state of my flat in advance.”

Along with Mycroft, Sherlock could feel himself be gently lifted with George’s levitation charm, and they are carried over to George’s spare bedroom. They land with a plop on the comfortable bed, and George fusses over Mycroft – bringing in blankets and arranging them carefully around him. 

“Merlin, I am going to give Harry a call – do you know who attacked you? And where?”

“Diagon…” 

“Blimey, what were you doing there?”

“My brother… I went to go see your brother –”

“Damn, Sherlock  _ still  _ hasn’t resurfaced yet? Where did the blighter even go? Bill told me he was missing a few days ago. He was supposed to give me the next batch of potions today for our little project. I will text my brother too then. Do you need anything else, Mycroft? Do you think you will be fine? I will get you some dittany in a bit. It will help with the scarring.” 

“No. Thank you… George.”

“Don’t sweat it! Rest, Mycroft.”

George disappears from the room after having cast a comfortable warming charm over the blankets, and Sherlock could feel his brother relax and sink further into the bed. 

Sherlock has never felt so useless. He couldn’t even defend his brother! From their own kind! Merlin. This is all his fault. He should have never touched that bloody artifact – compulsion charm or not. But anyways, how did they even get to George’s place? His brother has never met George, and obviously is unable to apparate or even produce accidental magic – so how? 

Mycroft could have died. This is the salient point. Just because Sherlock had gotten into trouble (again)! Big brother who had been nervous about going to Diagon on his own. And rightly so – for some of his fears had come to fruition. But despite his instincts and Anthea’s counsel, he had gone regardless.

And what did Sherlock ever do for Mycroft in his adulthood? Nothing. Or perhaps worse – rebelling against his well-intentioned advice, airing out all those nasty and cruel jokes and pranks, ignoring him – rejecting all the olive branches that Mycroft had extended out (albeit less frequently with every passing year). And… did Sherlock do all of that out of resentment? Just because Mycroft had deigned to give his valuable time to another person in his life? To carve a life out of his own – away from Sherlock? 

It sounds so stupid now that he’s actually thought it out. He feels teary-eyed, even though he knows that brollies can’t cry. 

Somehow, he feels Mycroft’s hand gently close around him, giving him a comforting little squeeze. 

“Lock. Sherlock.” Mycroft’s voice is a little bit stronger than it had previously been minutes ago. “You… you saved my life. I… don’t know how you were able to do that – fight off three people at once and send us here – where your – acquaintance is. It has to be you – no one else would have done that. I can… I can feel your guilt from here. Good Lord, I don’t care if anyone thinks I am insane – talking to a brolly… but Lock – you, you – mustn’t blame yourself for this. It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you. I don’t blame you for anything –”

And somehow, that just makes him want to cry harder. Despite all of Mycroft’s present concerns, his focus is still on him. His brother’s hand gently strokes the canopy, rather akin to having his back petted. 

Things will be different. They have to be. Sherlock reflects. After he somehow manages to survive this particular (mis)adventure. 

* * *

There’s a few people talking rapidly outside. 

There’s Potter. There’s Lestrade. There’s George – explaining what had happened and his concern over his breached anti-apparition wards. There’s even the youngest Weasley brother – Ronald – who had come up from manning the shop till downstairs to check things out. 

After several minutes, there is a knock at the door – and the Aurors swoop in. 

Sherlock wants to yell at them and tell them to leave his brother alone, but of course – brollies do not have a mouth. His brother had finally fallen asleep several minutes ago, his respirations reassuring and comforting to Sherlock’s ears. Never will he say again that breathing is boring.

“Mr Holmes.” It’s Potter who speaks. 

Sherlock can feel his brother shift, awaking from his short-lived slumber. 

“We just want to hear from you about what happened down the street from here – in Diagon Alley.”

“Mpph.” His brother grumbles – drowsy from the pain potions, moving about weakly to get comfortable. “Not… not much to say. I was walking back to the Leaky Cauldron after… after meeting with Bill. Over my… brother. Then… I think… there were three people. Two wizards. One witch. They accosted me. Said things. Like ‘my kind wasn’t welcome here’. Things along those lines. They raised their wands. There were some incantations – I couldn’t really tell what was going on and then I heard screaming. An explosion. And oh – pain. In my right shoulder. And then the next thing I knew I was looking up at… George. He was going in and out of focus in my vision.”

“Did you ever meet George, Mycroft? Before this situation?” It’s Lestrade who asks.

“Tired.” Mycroft murmurs – and Sherlock has the urge to drag them both out by their ears. “No. I knew of him, but not personally –”

“What are you two idiots doing here?” Someone has rushed into the room. It’s Bill. “Why are you two interrogating Mycroft? For the love of all that’s sacred – he’s doped up on who knows what my brother has given him. I know there’s pressure to clear up the death and injuries that happened downstairs but let me tell you – it’s not him who did that. Just because Moriarty was –”

Sherlock is half annoyed and half relieved at Bill for playing the white knight. 

Potter sounds sheepish. “I know he didn’t do that. That explosion was massive, and we can’t find the source! There’s going to be panic on the streets if we don’t get to the bottom of this. Kingsley is going to have my hide!” 

“Face it, Harry – there’s a problem with anti-squib sentiment in wizarding Britain after all that with Moriarty. I recognized one of the charred remains of the victims – I’ve seen her before at the anti-squib protests and even before that – protesting the Werewolf Protection Act that was put into law almost half a decade ago in front of the Ministry. I bet she and her two companions were the instigators.”

“It adds up to what Mycroft had said before you came in.” Lestrade nods. “Of course it would be nice to get a pensieve memory from Mycroft but…”

“Even doped up I can’t get ahold of his –”

Sherlock is royally pissed off. 

Merlin. He’s seen this happen time and time again during his time working with the Aurors. The value of consent. Potter was trying to use Legilimency against his brother, trying to extract from his mind the pertinent memories without even mentioning it – thinking that a squib would never notice him poking around in his head. But Mycroft is an accomplished Occlumens. Sherlock had known that – having tried to breach his brother’s mental shields himself. Apparently one doesn’t need a lot of magic to be able to protect one’s mind from attack, although Legilimency could only be performed by a wand-wielder. 

Potter pauses mid-sentence before he starts to stare at Sherlock. Everyone else has turned to stare at him, including Mycroft. 

“Oh my – I think we’ve found the source of the magic.” 

Lestrade starts to reach for Sherlock – but Mycroft uses all his strength to prevent him from taking him. 

“No. The brolly stays. It… it saved my life –”

“Mr Holmes – please hear us out! That could be a piece of contraband from Moriarty –” Potter begins to say.

“Please. This is my brolly. I had it custom made by one of the most reputable muggle brolly shops in the world. It goes everywhere with me. When I am out in public, it never leaves my side. Whatever magic is in there is not malevolent.”

“Let the man keep his brolly.” Bill sighs, playing the all-too-familiar big brother role. “Come on, lads – let the poor man rest. You’ve done enough!” 

“Bill –” Potter gives a questioning glance at him.

“Leave the brolly, Harry. I’ve examined the thing myself when I was with Mycroft at lunch. It’s not one of Moriarty’s runic toys of mass destruction. If anything, it’s a lost soul –”

Potter arches a suspicious eyebrow. “A… what now? That sounds awfully like a hor –”

“Harry. No. Come on now. You need a rest too. I know Kingsley has you running in circles as the youngest Head Auror ever, but please don’t take it out on Mycroft.” 

“Fine. But that brolly –”

Bill shepherds both of the Aurors out before Potter could finish his sentence. 

Mycroft chuckles when the door finally slams shut behind them. 

“Oh, Lock – you just can’t keep a low profile can’t you? Shooting all those magical sparks from the pointy end?” He laughs a little harder. “You are so magnificent when you are pissed off. I must admit sometimes I rile you up a little just to see you flounce off. With your curls and long cloak bouncing and billowing about. It makes our verbal duels somewhat less depressing than they actually are.”

Sherlock can feel Mycroft hug him against his chest like a beloved cuddly toy before falling asleep again.

* * *

“Where is my phone?” Mycroft mumbles when he wakes up next. His hands feel blindly under the blankets and his trouser pockets. “Ow.” He grimaces when he accidentally pulls at one of his wounds. “Anthea is really going to kill me.”

Sherlock wants to tell his brother to rest and stop worrying about Anthea. And his phone. And bloody Queen and country! Old Blighty has been functioning before Mycroft’s existence, and it, in the nature of its people, will ‘keep calm and carry on’ afterwards. But for himself – Sherlock, existing in a world without his brother is too terrible to contemplate. All he feels really is shame, for he had wasted all of these years he could have had with his brother. 

The blankets start moving as Mycroft struggles to sit up. 

“These are definitely going to scar.” Mycroft is now examining his injuries. “They got a good hit in.” He sighs dejectedly. “It’s not like I was much of a looker anyways.”

Maybe there is some merit to this damned curse. It’s making Sherlock see the consequences of all his actions or at the lack thereof. It allows him to see all the moments that Mycroft would never otherwise let him see. A brolly wouldn’t utter insults. It’s a (besides the explosion in Diagon Alley aside) harmless object. And considering that Mycroft goes everywhere with his brolly, it’s clearly an object of comfort. Part of Mycroft’s usual armour of three-piece suit. It has broken barriers in understanding the layers of hurt that have festered throughout the years. And has given Sherlock insight into how he might be able to change things. If… Mycroft was still willing to give him a chance that is. 

Some time later, there is a knock at the door.

“Come in.” Mycroft says hoarsely.

George comes in with Bill in tow. Behind them levitates a bed tray containing a simple dinner. 

“You are looking better, mate.” George remarks. “But Doctor George insists on bedrest for the next few days.”

“I-I have to work.”

“Your personal assistant – Anthea was it? – she managed to get ahold of me and we had a brief conversation. Her orders are for you to stay put, and she will see you tomorrow. To be honest, Mycroft – she sounds a little…” Bill trails off.

“Scary?” Mycroft finishes.

Bill nods as the tray finally comes to a rest next to Mycroft. 

“Harry says he will drop by later. He’s very sorry. He’s a good bloke… even if my sister and he decided to part ways. You see… he’s just recently been promoted to Head and the responsibilities are quite immense, especially with this disappearing nonsense over the past few months. And now the explosion in Diagon in broad daylight. I am not trying to make excuses for him, but he does have a tendency to be overzealous with his investigations…” 

“Of course.” Mycroft says politely. He turns to Bill. “I can see that you have questions. I think it’s best to get it over with.”

“As you wish.” Bill gives him an easy reassuring smile. He whips out his wand and conjures himself a stool. “George, if you would kindly leave us?”

“I will have some more pain potions in a bit. The ones I gave you should wear off soon. Well – if you need anything, I am just a shout away. But make sure it’s directed to my right ear.” George grins unrepentantly at his jest – gesturing the earless-side of his head before walking jauntily away. 

“I suppose…” Mycroft says as soon as Bill sits down on the stool. “You want to know if the brolly caused the explosion? It did. I felt emotion – radiating from it. It was anger, frustration – even despair. What it really reminded me of was those bursts of accidental magic one releases during their childhood. Obviously I never experienced it for myself, but my little brother certainly did. He was particularly prone to doing so whenever he was emotional –”

“Do you still think it's your brother?”

“I know this is absurd, but I think it’s additional evidence that it’s my brother. I was surprised to end up in George’s flat. But I understand that my brother has a… working relationship with him? And knows about his varied skill set to help me with my… injuries?”

“I think it’s safe to say that they are friends. They’ve worked together on various products for the shop, although in Sherlock’s case – it’s usually practical things for his work. Hm…” Bill carefully examines the scars on Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Oh. Pretty gnarly aren’t they?” Mycroft had forgotten to cover himself when the two men had come in. 

Bill winks at him. “Battle scars are hot. Attracts all the men and the women. I would know.” He points to his face, and Sherlock can see the faint marks of old werewolf wounds. “You will need to fend them off with your brolly! Sectumsempra is what George thinks it looks like. I am inclined to agree. Ugly slashing curse. Dark too to boot. There’s a telltale pattern to it – it looks like a series of jagged lightning cutting through the skies. Well, at least you didn’t lose an ear! Saves us all from the litany of ear jokes that George had come up with.” 

“Well… thank you.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short, Mycroft. You are a good-looking bloke in the prime of your life. Brave man too, walking in Diagon alone during a time where people are wary of –”

Mycroft is rather taken aback by Bill’s compliments. “Squibs. You can use that term. I… I don’t find it offensive. Anthea… she would call me stupid for walking in Diagon alone yesterday.”

“But you – you would do anything for you brother, won’t you? Regardless of how he plagues your life? I understand. Being the eldest of seven. It’s a most admirable trait.”

“You… you aren’t going to take my brolly away, are you? I foresee another battle with Anthea over the matter –”

“No. Of course not. The evidence is clear. There was definitely malicious intent behind the curse that was cast at you. It was meant… to kill. People don’t cast such things to frighten people off. You won’t get into trouble – it was an act of defense, and rightly so. We wouldn’t be sitting here talking about it, otherwise. I am only sorry that you’ve caught a glimpse of the blight that persists within our society – although I understand prejudice is very much an issue amongst the muggles as well. Whether or not the entity within your brolly is your brother – that’s another question that we can hopefully solve soon.”

“Then, you have a way to test my hypothesis?”

“I think so. I just remembered that the brolly has a magical signature, and that we keep the magical signatures of everyone who works at the Department of Law Enforcement on file. I will just have to go look for Sherlock’s file tomorrow at work and we can have a comparison.”

“Well, Sherlock doesn’t exactly work on behalf of the Ministry. I highly doubt he would want anything of his on file at the Ministry. He’s not a big fan of… established institutions.”

“It’s still worth a gander. Ideas are not so easy to come by for this particular problem.”

“I was just thinking of something. You mentioned earlier that the purpose of the artifact that Sherlock touched is to transfer one to their soulmate – so I was wondering – oh never –”

“Nothing is too silly or stupid to contemplate, Mycroft. Especially in my field. Please… finish your thought.” Bill lets his hand rest on Mycroft’s forearm in a comforting manner. 

“I was thinking of those age-old fairy tales that we grew up with as children. There were a few that involved soulmates. I was thinking of the prince who was cursed to be a frog –” Mycroft starts hesitating.

“Ah. You are thinking of the modern retelling of the tale. The one with the –”

“Kiss.”

“That’s a fair thought. Well, I am a fan of science – why don’t you test it out?” Bill smiles kindly. “Maybe that might satisfy the bloody curse.”

“Good Lord, I already feel incredibly stupid.”

Meanwhile Sherlock is quivering. A kiss! Mycroft is going to kiss him?!?! What intriguing (and mad) parallels is Mycroft is extrapolating from an old fairy tale to their most bizarre situation!? 

Even though brollies cannot breathe, Sherlock is feeling slightly lightheaded as if he is hyperventilating. Maybe sex does alarm him, if the mere idea of kissing is enough to send him into such a tailspin. There’s something wrong with what he’s feeling. Should he not be disgusted? But, there is something in him that… oh dear god… wants this. And he would absolutely hate it if Mycroft kissed someone else… like Bill… who seems quite interested in Mycroft. Damn… he’s been a brolly for so long that it’s completely addled his brain. 

“Where would you even kiss it? Brollies don’t quite have a mouth like frogs do.” Bill asks, intrigued.

“I don’t suppose it matters?” Mycroft gives Bill an amused look.

Sherlock can feel himself being pulled out completely from the cocoon of blankets. 

“Is it your hand or the brolly that is shaking?” Bill asks a beat later, making Sherlock realize that he is mentally trembling so hard that the brolly itself is shaking. 

“Definitely the brolly. I generally have a steady hand.”

“It’s got a little… stage fright?” Bill muses. “It’s rather… cute.”

_ I am NOT cute! _ Sherlock tries to glare at the eldest Weasley brother, but no one notices it. His brother is stroking the dark polyester of the brolly – and Sherlock finds his ruffled feathers being soothed against his will. 

“Well, here goes nothing.” 

Sherlock finds himself slowly being lifted up. He sees Mycroft’s now stubbly face getting closer and closer – and then soft and slightly wind-chapped lips are meeting what feels like his own. It seems to last forever, even though the reality is that Mycroft only lets it linger for no more than a few seconds. 

This is fucking crazy. 

Then suddenly he slides out of Mycroft’s hand – the contents of the room growing smaller quickly as Sherlock realizes that he had leapt up in the air. He braces for a painful fall, but instead, there is a soft thud as the tip of the ferrule lands on the hardwood flooring. An electric jolt seems to sizzle through his being, keeping him from toppling onto the ground. 

“Wow. That’s quite some kiss.” Bill grins, looking directly at Sherlock from the other side of the bed. 

“It’s still a brolly.” Mycroft says bemusedly. 

“The magical amazing bouncing brolly. George will be so upset to have missed this!”

“It’s… standing – unaided!” Mycroft observes in some sort of awe. “Sherlock, silly brother – if it is you – would you consider bouncing again?” 

_Bouncing?_ _Again?_ Does no one have any idea how _hard_ it is to be stuck in a brolly? A typically inert motionless object? He had just stumbled into standing on his pointy end, and they expect him to bounce? In fact, he’s struggling against the efforts of gravity and its never-ending quest to have him land flat on his face. 

He can feel himself wobbling slightly – and he knows there really isn’t much time until he finds himself crashing onto the hard unforgiving floor.  _ Come on, do something!  _ He scolds himself, and somehow – miraculously – the floor falls away from him again and there is another satisfying sort of thud when the metallic ferrule slams against the floor again. Then suddenly he’s doing it again, and again – and he’s made it back to Bill’s side of the bed. It’s a bit like walking, but not quite. It’s… exhausting.

“George! George!” Bill is off his seat and out of the room. “You’ve got to see this!”

Mycroft is staring at him, his synapses obviously trying to compute the past sequence of events. “If you are a trapped soul, tap twice.” 

Wasn’t it enough for him to bounce to prove his identity? Sherlock grouses. The next thing he knows is that he will be performing circus tricks over a fire in front of a sold out crowd! But for his brother, he bounces twice – lightly. Not flying as high as he had previously in his wild first attempts, but clearing a handful of decimetres. 

“Have you been in that brolly since… Thursday?”

Another two taps. Merlin, this is fatiguing! 

“If you really are Lock – how about a multiple choice question? Who was the house-elf who lied on your behalf when you set fire to our mother’s favourite tapestry?” 

Sherlock frowns. He does not like being reminded of his parents. Or rather, egg and sperm donors. He doesn’t want to think about the fate of his favourite house-elf, Vinny, who had been Sherlock’s unfailing defender. Their parents’ cruel ideas for punishments. Ice-cold baths and solitary confinement for Sherlock’s mishaps both deliberate and accidental. They had beaten Mycroft too, hoping to beat the magic into him before trying some quack methods that Mycroft would never ever want to talk about. 

Fortunately, after they had given up on ‘curing’ Mycroft’s lack of magic, they had taken a distant approach to their children. Leaving them to their own devices. It had been one of their saner relatives who had provided the money and connections for Mycroft’s muggle schooling. When Sherlock had finally gotten into Hogwarts… the love-bombing had begun. They had been determined to make him the heir in their image, only to find out that Sherlock had wanted nothing to do with their insane traditional pureblooded ideals. 

Before Mycroft could issue the answers for him to choose from, Sherlock is already tapping. Three staccato taps, one long. A pause. Two short taps. Pause. A long tap followed by a short. Repeat. And finally, long, short, long and long. 

V-I-N-N-Y. 

He’s forced to repeat himself as Mycroft had been too astonished to fully compute what Sherlock was doing. Morse code. Mycroft had spent several days during one of Sherlock’s holidays, showing him how muggles could communicate in secret. There’s a loud thump and pain when he finally finishes, having exhausted all his energy reserves.

“Damn. Show’s over.” George had finally made it into the room just as Sherlock fell over.

“I told you to come quickly!” Bill scolds him.

“Can you two – please pick up my brother from the floor?” Mycroft says firmly – before the brotherly bickering could commence. 

“So… the brolly is your brother?” George is still very much out at sea.

Bill does what he is asked. He picks up the brolly and offers it to Mycroft. Mycroft all but snatches it from him and places it back beneath the blanket. 

“Apparently, yes. I asked him a few questions and he tapped out the answers. The last of which, only we would know the answer.” 

George eyes the untouched dinner. “You should try and eat, Mycroft. The potions and spell may have healed some of the damage, but you will need to keep your strength up. Here, let me cast a warming spell.” 

“We will leave you to eat then. Mycroft. George is surprisingly the best cook out of all of us Weasley siblings.” Bill admits reluctantly. He looks as if he wants to ask more questions of Mycroft, but he wisely defers. 

“Bon appétit!” George gives a mock bow, hiding his pleasure at being uncharacteristically complimented by his older sibling. 

And finally, when the door is shut – Mycroft finally helps himself to the spaghetti and meatballs that George had provided, using his non-dominant (but uninjured) upper limb.

* * *

“Good thing I taught you Morse code, brother mine.” Mycroft pats Sherlock fondly after trying his best to finish George’s culinary efforts. “Not that this was the way I ever envisioned you making practical use of it.”

Sherlock remains still, just simply enjoying the temporary connection between Mycroft’s gentle hand and himself. Who knew that bouncing around as a brolly could be so… tiring? He feels as if he had chased after a criminal one week straight! Without rest. Or the days of chasing after Moriarty’s elusive coattails! At least, he’s managed to convince his brother that he is stuck in his brolly, so he will be under Mycroft’s protection. And… he’s glad that he could be of some use to Mycroft – with his accidental surges of magic. He hasn’t had an accidental magic outburst since he’s gotten his wand all those years ago. 

“I… I just want to hear your voice, Sherlock. It’s… been awhile since we last conversed. Well…” Mycroft grimaces. “Civilly. We had that argument the last time we were together. Over where you were living. I… I don’t mean to be controlling, but… I don’t know what to say. Or what to do to cross the chasm that separates us. Somehow, it’s harder now to say things. Knowing that it is really you in that brolly of mine. I think the crux is that… I miss you. I think you should know that. As for this soulmates business… it all sounds like a lot of – hocus-pocus…” Mycroft smiles wryly at that. “Guess we will have to figure out what that artifact wants from us. I guess I should apologize. Forcing you to listen to all that… sentimental nonsense from the last few days. And… that kiss. Without your willing consent. I don’t know what to make out of your reaction, brother dear. Did you hate it and was desperately trying to get away through that leap? Or did you like it and couldn’t deal with it? Or were you – indifferent? You always did say the body is transport. Or a conduit for your brain and magic.”

There’s another knock at the door. It’s not a Weasley brother, but Potter has arrived. He looks exhausted. There’s a bit of George’s spaghetti sauce on his robes. 

“Hello, Mr Holmes.”

“Head Auror.” Mycroft acknowledges curtly – adopting his ‘Iceman’ persona once more and looks pointedly at the stool that Bill had just sat in. “Potter. How can I… help you?”

“I wish to conduct an interview with you… if you do not mind? I do apologize for – earlier.”

“Whichever will get you out of my sight faster, Head Auror. I am… frankly… exhausted. And the pain has somewhat returned.” 

Sherlock can tell that Mycroft is acting it up a bit. Playing the role of the poor, helpless and injured squib. 

“Thank you.” Potter sits down. “Can you account for me your doings this morning, up to your appearance in Mr George Weasley’s flat?”

“Well… I started the day by going to my brother’s flat at Baker Street to borrow some clothing. And then I was chauffeured to the Leaky and made it to my appointment with Bill with a few minutes to spare at the  _ Green Dragon. _ Bill left me as he had an emergency to attend to in regard to the artifact that was involved in my brother’s disappearance. This was around noon. I left thirty minutes later, left a tip as the house-elf Aggie refused to give me a bill. I decided to take a quick stroll around Diagon to see what has changed since… since the last time I was there. And then… I was approached by two individuals. One man. One woman.” Mycroft frowns in distaste. “They said things to me that I do not wish to repeat to you, Head Auror. It’s nothing that I haven’t heard before from my own family. I can brush those off, but once the wands get drawn – I knew there was nothing I could do at that point. There was no one else around except for another wizard who joined in. I heard incantations. I felt… pain. So much pain. Worse than anything I had experienced. I thought I was dead. And my only regret was… the state of my relationship with my brother. The only person – well nevermind… not important. The next thing I knew… I was looking at George. Feeling faint. Going in and out of consciousness. I don’t remember much after that.”

“And the explosion?” Potter asks hopefully. 

“It wasn’t from me, if that’s what you were asking. It was from my brolly. Which is, by the way, a custom made one from a notable muggle brolly company. It has served me well for well over a decade now. It seldom leaves my sight.”

“Mr Holmes, would you consider relinquishing your brolly –”

“Absolutely not.” Mycroft says firmly. “It’s my constant companion –”

“But you must understand that magic doesn’t –” Potter looks sheepish. “Magically appear spontaneously –”

“But you also must understand, Head Auror – that it is  _ my _ brother that is trapped in this very brolly. And despite the work of your noble department, it is I who have discovered this fact.”

Potter gives Mycroft an incredulous look of disbelief. “How… how could you possibly know? Mr Holmes – I understand that you have a difficult and profound relationship with your brother – and I know you want to believe that he’s safe and sound –”

“With all do respect, Head Auror – I have good evidence that this brolly is my brother. One: the explosion reminds me of those accidental outbursts of magic when my brother was a child. He would have them when he was angry, upset or frustrated. Two: in addition to the explosion, the magic burst also allowed me to apparate into Mr George Weasley’s house. Although I have seen Mr Weasley before – as my brother enjoys going to their shop, I did not get to know him until today. Of course, I have never been in his flat either. From what I understand, this magic has managed to overcome some stringent anti-apparition wards. My brother – on the other hand – knows Mr Weasley quite well. They work together on projects. He would also know that Mr Weasley is a competent potioneer and has the know-how to treat my wounds without going to St. Mungo’s. And finally, my brolly managed to gain a new ability this evening. It is now capable of locomotion via jumping – rather like a pogo-stick – ah nevermind –” Mycroft realizes that this is a purely muggle invention.

“Mr Holmes – I did grow up in a muggle household. I do know what a pogo-stick is – but what you’ve provided me is circumstantial evidence –”

“I am not done yet, Head Auror.” Mycroft cuts him off. “Through jumping, it was able to answer ‘yes’ and ‘no’ questions. To which it answered ‘yes’ to the questions ‘were you a soul trapped in my brolly?’ and ‘were you trapped in there since last Thursday?’. And to make it definitive, he answered a very personal question between us with Morse code. Morse code –”

“I do know what that is, Mr Holmes – but I must insist – there are certain pieces of magicks that are capable of attaching themselves to you and gradually – in a parasitic fashion – start draining you quite literally. Over time they can completely take over your –”

“Is this piece of magic you are referring to – a horcrux – by any chance, Head Auror?”

Potter looks as if he is going to fall out of his chair. “How-how would you know? It’s a secret –”

“When one’s personal assistant was an Auror back in the day – one learns all sorts of interesting tidbits. And frankly – Head Auror – you are far from being the first person that has attempted to take my brolly away. I have no doubt that I will be dissuading her from taking my brolly away again tomorrow. And… Head Auror – have you ever been in this peculiar situation of believing strongly in something – and having no one believe you?”

“Uh… um… yes!” Potter reluctantly nods, evidently thinking about his past days. 

“How did you feel about that? I do recall an entire Ministry being in denial about Lord Voldemort’s return…”

“Frustrated. But that’s two different things?! That was the rise of evil that the Ministry was deliberately closing their eyes to! And this… this – this could be a horcrux that could consume you and –”

“Head Auror. Please. I know I sound absurd, but this brolly is  _ not _ a horcrux. It’s my brother. And I will not be relinquishing him to your esteemed department, regardless of your arguments. There are three months of disappearances for you to look into – likely connected with this artifact –”

“Do you think I do not know that?” Potter is starting to look frazzled. “We’ve had six people disappear and a seventh – today! Bill’s bloody apprentice!”

“If this brolly was a horcrux – a wizard or a witch who has committed the sacrilege of using the Killing curse would have to be in my presence, would they not? And I am certain that I have not been in the presence of anyone who has killed within the last week. Squib I might be, but I know when I am in the presence of someone… magical –”

There’s another knock at the door.

“Harry – could you stop pestering my patient now? I have potions to give him, and then he needs sleep! And let him keep his bloody brolly. If it’s you-know-poo coming back to haunt us in a bouncing brolly, I say – let him! Good Merlin – it’s been dull around here!”

“Merlin – George – it got you too?” Potter’s face falls. He then mutters – standing up as he does so. “I would like for things to be dull – thank you very much. The paperwork itself is enough for a lifetime…”

George comes in, bearing potions and a promising cuppa. 

“I’d hate to kick you out, Harry – but it’s practically midnight.”

“I can take a hint, George. I will see you later then.”

“Ciao, amigo.” George then asks brightly as Potter leaves the room. “Would you like a sponge bath, Mycroft?” He chuckles at Mycroft’s look of horror. “I can also provide a cleaning spell if that’s more to your taste before you sleep.”

“That would be the next best thing to a shower. Thank you.”

“Harry is a tenacious one, isn’t he? When he gets stuck on an idea… he’s like a dog with a bone.” George shakes his head. “It’s alright – I am on Team Brolly. As is Bill. Did Harry get to see the bouncing brolly?”

“The brolly is exhausted. I can hardly feel his presence ever since he fell over. And my brother is not something for your entertainment.” 

George grins. 

Sherlock can only imagine the mockery he would have to endure when he finally gets out of this damned thing.

“Well, if anyone has seen that brolly bounce – they would be laughing at the notion that it could be a horcrux. Evil has a poor sense of humour from what I’ve seen.” George remarks lightly, after handing Mycroft the first vial of potion to drink.


	5. Chapter 5

“Sir!” Anthea sighs when she stands at the foot of the bed. 

She looks utterly unamused. “Did you know how worried I was? When you didn’t respond to my text in the afternoon? Yesterday? When you told me you were taking Monday off – I had this feeling… this queer feeling that you were going to do something stupid! Going off on your own to Wizarding London! At a time where people are uneasy about squibs? What were you thinking?” 

“Looking for my brother – Anthea.” Mycroft says wearily, having been woken up by her early arrival into George’s flat. “And I found him. So – tell me what I have to do today. Is it to defuse tensions between Iran and –”

“Sir. You will not be doing anything today except for resting! Same for the day after today. And maybe even the next! You lost a massive amount of blood yesterday, and really – you should have been shipped off to St. Mungo’s! You could have died!”

“God forbid that my death gets in the way of the schedule.” Mycroft quips and Anthea gives him a glare that Medusa would have been proud of. 

“Sir, this is not a joking matter!” Anthea is practically seething. “This is unlike you, Sir – I think that brolly has had a bad influence on you.” 

Sherlock can see her reaching over for him, just as Mycroft realizes what she is doing. _Now or never._ He thinks and the bed is soon far below him as he manages to leap off. Away from her unwanted hands. Good Merlin, why is every damned Auror (past or present) paranoid that he is sodding horcrux? He makes a dash for the open door, just as Anthea has taken out her wand and incants frantically. 

“Accio, accio – accio Sir’s brolly!”

He could feel the pull of her magic, but he is able to repel it. Guess a Sherlock-possessed brolly is animated enough to not fall under the spell’s stringent summoning criteria. 

Anthea curses and rushes after him. 

Sherlock bounces faster. 

Merlin. Where’s George? 

“What the bloody fuck is happening here?” George suddenly appears – wide-eyed as Sherlock leaps from various pieces of furniture – making it difficult for Anthea to catch him. 

“Not now, George – catch that brolly!” 

“Anthea – please – leave the poor thing alone!” George grabs her firmly by the wrist. 

“Unhand me, Weasley!” 

George lets go of her before she could stick the pointy end of her wand at him. He hollers. “Sherlock – the lab!”

Understanding him, Sherlock bounces as fast as he possibly could into George’s private inventing space (also known as the lab) filled with all sorts of bubbling and/or steaming concoctions, prototypes and whiteboards. He jumps up and uses his ‘head’ or rather handle of the brolly to shut the door behind him. It clicks – automatically locking him into the lab. 

He can hear Anthea’s frustrated noises as she attempts to unlock the door followed by a furiously whispered argument with George on the other side. 

This is easily the strangest situation Sherlock has ever been in. He stops to catch his ‘breath’, leaning himself against a free corner of the room. He has a bit more energy than the day before, but it’s mostly depleted – especially as the adrenaline is dissipating. At the very least, he’s making the most of his ‘new’ transport. 

He sighs. Is he going to be stuck as a brolly forever? Or for the rest of his life? This bloody sucks as much as it is entertaining to see the Head of the Aurors and even Anthea lose their minds over a single bouncing bespoke brolly. 

The era of Voldemort still holds such a powerful influence on the ones who had fought him, even though it has been years (almost two decades) since all the parts of him had been eradicated. At the same time, he himself can draw the parallels between whatever state of limbo he is in and a horcrux. A somewhat sentient object that has an unnatural hold upon a person. Who appears to get stronger when a living human being invests emotionally into them. But he (unlike a horcrux) has no desire to possess anyone. 

He just wants out of this brolly. 

Hm. If he’s trapped in here – where are all the other missing people trapped in?

He hears the sound of a door opening. Judging by the footsteps, it’s George – the only person aside from his youngest brother that could come and go freely from the lab. 

“It’s safe now, Sherlock. Anthea has left.”

Sherlock doesn’t realize his relief until he falls (in a controlled manner) onto the cold tiled floor.

“Oh you silly brolly – between your brother and I – no one will take you away.” George says fondly. “I thought I was a dab hand for getting into scrapes, but this certainly is a novel tale to laugh at in a few months. Here. Let me take you back to your brother.”

* * *

“You are looking better, Mycroft.” Bill observes when he enters the bedroom.

His brother is sitting on a nearby armchair rather than resting on the bed. A tartan patterned duvet keeps the cold away. Sherlock agrees – Mycroft does look better. There is a pinkening of his cheeks and even his eyes are brighter. 

“Thank you, Bill. Anthea has ordered a day of rest, so George has provided me with some light reading.” Mycroft points to a thick text entitled: _Ancient Curses and How to Get Out Alive._

“If that’s light – I’d hate to see what a serious text for you may be!” Bill conjures a chair complete with cushion as the stool from yesterday had finally lost its magic and vanished during lunchtime.

“How was your day then?” Mycroft inquires – much to Sherlock’s surprise. It’s not like his brother to make overly friendly overtures toward people. 

“Intriguing. Which is all I could ask for really. But anyways, I have some… news.”

“Oh, really? Do tell.” 

“A witch called today. Lady by the name of Isadora. Says she’s noticed something weird with her favourite mixing bowl. Says it's talking to her. Calling her name. The last straw was when it started jumping around – following her around the house. The bowl apparently claims he’s Maxwell Curtis – who was the first to disappear three months ago in what the press is now calling the Diagon Disappearances.” Bill then chuckles. “Leave it to the press to always get the details wrong – the disappearances happened in Knockturn Alley. We will have one of my apprentices go collect her bowl this evening after she’s off work.” 

“That sounds promising.” Mycroft then muses. “But Mr Curtis disappeared three months ago, didn’t he? Why did it take her so long to report it? I noticed that something odd was going on with my brolly the day Sherlock disappeared.”

“Well, we will have to ask her.” Bill shrugs. 

“Any word on your own apprentice that vanished?”

Bill shakes his head. “No.” He then adds. “It’s an accepted risk of the job, you know – Mycroft. That we could vanish, get hurt and even get killed by the things we see on the job. He will pop up at some point, we hope. Anything new with your brother?”

“He’s been quiet since Anthea chased him out of the room. I strongly suspect that Sherlock has quite limited quantities of energy or magic in the state that he is in.” Mycroft pats what feels like Sherlock’s head. “If it wasn’t so serious, it probably would have been one of the funniest things I’d ever seen.” 

“A shame I missed it.”

Their conversation continues – with Mycroft asking for stories about Bill’s old international curse-breaking days and Bill inquiring about Mycroft’s day-to-day existence. The conversation dips now and then into the personal realm. Mycroft is just bored – Sherlock tells himself – not because he’s genuinely interested in Bill. But there is this strange sensation. This queasiness. In what would be in his chest in his usual transport.

He’s felt this before. A long time ago. When he had stumbled upon Mycroft kissing another man at the foyer of his old but luxurious flat in Pall-Mall. He had snuck into his brother’s place back then, hoping to surprise his brother with dinner – only to get an unexpected surprise himself. 

It had left him feeling confused amongst many other things that he couldn’t understand. The man had been older – dressed in a suit and tie. Likely someone from big brother’s sphere of work. It’s one image that he could never quite manage to delete in his mind. And he had never really taken the time to understand why. 

It intensifies when Mycroft actually laughs at one of Bill’s stories regarding his younger brothers, and Bill joins in – his hearty chuckle mingling with Mycroft’s own more sedate laughter. Bill leans over to flick off a piece of lint on Mycroft’s duvet, and his brother doesn’t defend his personal space – but rather to reward his action with a smile. And then much to Sherlock’s horror – Bill asks his brother when he figured out that he was gay – and Mycroft actually tells him. During his days at Eton. During physical education class. Swimming, especially. And Bill had only been too eager to delve into Mycroft’s non-magical life. Not surprising, considering the fascination with muggles that his father has. 

“My parents – well – they washed their hands of me as soon as they gave up the dream that I would be a wizard. Ignored me. Disowned me eventually. Considering that the positive experiences in my life had come from the muggle-side of things – I opted to embrace life as a muggle. It is my brother that remains my sole tie to the wizarding world.”

And Mycroft would start detailing some of the ways the wizards and witches of the world would shun him. Look down on him. Pity him. Some of the ways Sherlock had observed and when he could – had put a stop to it. And there had been ways that he had missed. He isn’t surprised that Mycroft had decided to live as a muggle. And even the squibs that had chosen to remain in the wizarding world – Argus Filch for instance – aren’t really good ambassadors for making squibs more palatable to the general wizarding public. Moriarty’s appearance had only added fuel for an already simmering fire. Bill is shaking his head – dismayed at the prejudice and hatred, and his hand rests lightly against Mycroft’s in support. 

Argh. 

Sherlock had used to do that. Comfort his brother whenever something had upset him. Child-Sherlock had figured out that whatever the adults had been doing to his big brother was wrong. He had hated everyone with a passion who had made Mycroft doubt himself. Hate himself. Question his place in the world. And even… made him cry. Bill is offering an outlet that Mycroft obviously hadn’t had for years. Someone sympathetic and accepting of his situation in life. Someone that he could talk and understand. 

“You know, Myc –” Even Bill is on a nickname-basis with his brother now! “When you are feeling up to it – and when your brother is freed from his predicament – we could –”

A phone starts ringing much to Sherlock’s relief. 

It’s Bill’s. 

“Bill here. What can I do for you?”

“Oh – It’s you – Lester. Did you get the bowl from Isa –”

“I see. You are saying that you can’t?”

There is another knock at the door. George comes in – looking somewhat amused. 

“Do you lot –”

“Shhh…” Mycroft shushes him, gesturing to Bill. 

“The bowl refuses to leave her? It is begging and pleading Isadora to stay with her? And jumping away from you? And it appears to be impervious to any sort of summoning spell? Interesting. If you would leave your memories in the pensieve in my office and your documentation on my desk, I will have a look at them first thing tomorrow. Go home, Lester – there’s nothing more to do then in that case. What? Well – I think you can safely tell her that her bowl is not a horcrux and that there’s a high probability that there is indeed a wizard named Maxwell stuck in there.”

“Yes, I know it sounds ridiculous. But we’ve seen more absurd curses, haven’t we?”

“Oh good evening, Ms Isadora – this is Bill Weasley – Head Curse-Breaker.”

“Um. Yes. I believe so. I can owl you details about Mr Maxwell Curtis in the morrow –” 

“Yes. Certainly. From what I’ve seen and heard – your heirloom mixing bowl is not a malicious object. You-Know-Who will not be bursting out of it any time soon. I can assure you of that. It appears to be some poor soul who was cursed and cast into your bowl.” Bill sighs deeply. “Yes, yes, ma’am – we are working on it. Based on my preliminary investigation, the curse relates to soulmates –”

“Ma’am. I have no idea what kind of soulmates the curse is referring to. It could be platonic for all I –”

Sherlock can hear the shocked screech of excitement from the other end of the line.

“Soulmates! Oh great Circe!” Her exclamation is then followed by a loud click.

“Brother dear.” George says cautiously. “Maybe you shouldn’t have told her that. Women go batty for that kind of stuff.”

“Too late now.” Bill grimaces. 

“Who knows – maybe she will find a way to break the curse? Besides – dinner is ready. I hope you like Chinese – Mycroft. I reverse-engineered this chow mein that I really enjoyed in muggle London the other week. With seafood.”

* * *

_My? Myc? Mycroft? My?_

Sherlock tries to reach his brother after dinner. Bill had left with promises that he would be back the next day, having decided to go to bed early tonight. His brother is resting next to him on the spare bed looking rather lost in thought. Although still tired from this morning’s incident, he feels that he ought to step up his communication game – considering the discovery of another wizard stuck in an otherwise inanimate object. 

“Sherlock?” His brother’s features sharpen a few minutes later. “Sherlock? I think… I can hear you. Your words… they are rather faint.” 

A hand reaches under the blankets and carefully brings Sherlock out. His brother scrutinizes the brolly as if trying to locate Sherlock within its confines. 

_Mycroft! Oh Merlin! I’ve been trying to talk to you for days!_

Sherlock could almost cry in relief when his brother says.

“I could sense it – you know, Sherlock. I couldn’t hear you clearly, but I had a vague sense that you were trying to communicate with me. I think you are getting stronger in that brolly.”

_It’s frustrating. Being trapped in here. It’s tiring even just to talk to you like this. Even worse if I have to move._

“I know. I know.” Mycroft says soothingly. “It’s alright. We will figure this out. You can rest if you like.”

_I just… I just want to say one thing. I… I am sorry._

“Oh, Lock…” Mycroft wraps his arms firmly around his brolly, enveloping Sherlock in a tight warm hug. “It’s okay. I… I forgive you.” 

_You forgive too easily._

“Sh. Brother. Just rest. We can talk about our whole relationship another time. I promise. Everything will be okay.” 

Cradled in his brother’s arms, Sherlock allows himself to be lulled into some sort of sleep. Or whatever it is brollies do when they are tired.

* * *

_Morning, Mycroft._

His brother makes a startled sort of snort when he transitions between the pseudo-awake state to the fully awake state. He blinks, sitting up on the bed. His hand reaches upward, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he murmurs.

“Morning, Lock. Sleep well?”

_I feel rested, if that’s what you mean. Not sure if brollies… sleep._

“Your voice is clearer and louder today.” Mycroft remarks.

_It’s easier to talk now. I am not sure where this strength comes from. Perhaps… from you?_

“I don’t have any magic, Lock.”

_That’s not true. You’ve always had some. A trace. Potions work on you. You can travel by Floo. You can see through the magic meant to repel non-magical beings._

“Not enough for it to matter.” 

_Mycroft. I don’t care how much magic you have. You are still…_

“Still what, little brother?”

 _Still my…_ Sherlock swallows. He can’t finish the sentence. He’s said this sentence so many times in the past, when Mycroft had been in need of encouragement. In need of comfort. All he feels is shame. 

_Still my favourite being._

His brother gives him a wry smile but doesn’t say anything in response. There’s a bit of sadness in it. A hand gently squeezes the middle of the brolly. 

There are so many things that Sherlock wants to say. But he doesn’t know where to start. Instead, what slips his mouth (or rather mind) is:

_What do you think of Bill?_

Mycroft chuckles lightly. “What do I think of Mr Bill Weasley? He’s a sound sort of chap. Had a wild youth that was tempered through experience. Why is this of interest to you, Lock?”

_You… you seem interested._

“Do I?” Mycroft permits himself a small smile.

_He certainly does._

“It’s nice to have attractive male attention from time to time.” Mycroft says innocently.

_If he… finally asks you out… would you say yes?_

“Sherlock. What’s the purpose of these questions?”

_I am just a curious party, brother. Nothing more. And… I do… want you to be happy. It would… make me happy too._

It would kill him, but he would bear it. Sherlock has finally put the name to these disconcerting feelings that had risen in his chest. It’s the common feeling of… jealousy. It’s only right for Mycroft to find someone that would make him happy. He’s only made his brother miserable for the last decade or so. Plus… he is a sibling and although incestuous relations aren’t illegal in the wizarding side of things, it’s not spoken of. (And it’s definitely frowned upon and illegal in the non-magical side of things). 

“Would you really be happy, brother?” Mycroft pats the brolly’s handle (Sherlock’s head). “The truth now, little brother.”

_I will have to learn how to be._

“I guess the salient question would be, little brother is – what do you want?”

_I want to… be with you. Have a chance to learn what sort of man my brother has become. And maybe… with time… we can be together in all the ways two humans can be._

His vantage point rises while he feels himself being spread out in all three dimensions. Suddenly he can feel himself blinking, and even hearing his own quiet inhales and exhales. By Merlin’s bollocks! He’s himself again! His body is in contact with something warm – and he realizes that he is cuddled up against his brother who is smiling at him. Mycroft doesn’t even look surprised by his sudden return to normalcy. 

“How did you know?” Sherlock asks after clearing his unused throat. He is relieved that he is at least wearing the clothes that he had disappeared in!

“How did I not know? I knew you were there, Lock – disillusionment charm aside. That day when I came home with Fraser. I heard you leave. And then you changed. Your behaviour towards me. I knew you didn’t understand what was going on with you. It was your… first matter of the heart –”

“And only –”

“What about Ms Adler?” Mycroft turns his head toward Sherlock sharply.

“She was nothing compared to you. I was only interested in her game.” Then Sherlock gazes at him – having made another realization. “You were jealous.”

“I was. But I had no right to you and let you pursue your interest.”

Sherlock sags against Mycroft’s shoulder and his brother gently takes one of his hands in his slightly larger one. After the last few days of being Mycroft’s brolly (the brolly itself is unharmed and is lying on the nightstand now), it feels amazing to be against his brother now. Mycroft intertwines their fingers together. 

Sherlock stares and stares at their digits in disbelief.

There’s a knock at the door.

He sighs and reluctantly relinquishes his hand from his brother. 

“Blimey! Look who's back from their stint as a brolly! You are a sight for sore eyes, Sherlock.” George exclaims. “Speaking of which – look what my sister texted me from this week’s _Witch Weekly_ that just came out today!” 

> _Your Soulmate! In Your Sex Toys!  
> _
> 
> _Good day, gals and gents (yes, we at Witch Weekly know that you blokes have a gander now and then at our esteemed paper) and goblins and ghouls. Today we bring to you an exclusive on how one of our longtime readers has managed to land her soulmate over the past weeks. If you lot have been following the recent going-ons in Wizarding London, then you may be aware that there have been wizards and witches disappearing off its streets. Imagine our witch’s surprise when she had managed to find one of these missing wizards in her favourite pocket rocket just as she was about to settle in for an evening of relaxation!_

“Well, it seems that three of the missing are now accounted for.” Mycroft focuses on the facts while Sherlock shudders. 

As Sherlock had rightfully deduced, there were indeed much worse fates aside from living in Mycroft’s brolly. Phallic imagery aside.

“Course, Ginny didn’t bother snapping the rest of the article!” George remarks, rather unsure if he is happy or unhappy about the fact. “I sent it to Bill and Harry and neither were too happy that Witch Weekly had gotten the scoop ahead of them! Bill’s already received a few owls from a few loons who want to touch that bloody artifact in the hopes of romantic bliss.” He then turns to focus on Sherlock. “So… out of curiosity, how did you resolve the curse?”

“We uh… had a conversation.” Sherlock hesitantly answers. “I merely stated that I wanted to improve our brotherly relations.”

“It surely can’t be that simple, can it?” George arches a skeptical eyebrow. 

“Or would you prefer the more fun explanation that involves Mycroft making out with his brolly? Ow!” Sherlock complains loudly when his brother pinches him none-too-gently on his sensitive flank. 

George grins widely, having evidently arrived at the right conclusion. “I see that you are going to have your hands full, Mycroft. My sincere condolences. As for you – Sherlock – I expect the next batch of potions for our Amortentia-based perfume at my place by Friday – capisce?”


End file.
